


This Time Around

by CracklPop



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, CEO Peter Hale, Denial of Feelings, Good Friend Lydia Martin, Human AU, M/M, Pining, Romance, Steter Secret Santa 2020, Writer Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28162593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CracklPop/pseuds/CracklPop
Summary: Stiles spends his childhood in love with and ignored by the handsome Derek Hale. When grown-up Stiles returns home after college, it's to a suddenly appreciative Derek. That doesn't sit well with Derek's uncle, Hale House & Home CEO Peter, who would prefer Derek marry someone else in order to secure a lucrative business deal.Derek wants Stiles. Peter wants Stiles out of the way. What better way to accomplish that than to make Stiles temporarily fall in love with someone else? Peter has every confidence in his ability to woo Stiles away from Derek...but Peter fails to take into account the effect Stiles will have on him.
Relationships: Braeden/Derek Hale, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 42
Kudos: 237





	This Time Around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gemjam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemjam/gifts).



> Happy Steter Secret Santa to Gemjam! I hope the story is what you were looking for and that you enjoy reading it <3 This was heavily inspired by the Bogart/Hepburn _Sabrina_ , with touches of the Ford/Ormond remake. It's Steter Sabrina :)

**CHAPTER 1**

Stiles was eleven when he first saw Derek. He stopped walking, the moving box in his arms forgotten as he stared. Derek was sitting under an apple tree in one of the Hale Estate gardens, hair haloed by sunlight filtering through the branches. He looked just like the prince in the fairy tale book Stiles’s mom had read to him before she’d died. 

“Who’s that?” Stiles asked his dad. Noah glanced over the garden gate to where Stiles’s gaze remained fixed. 

“One of the Hale kids. Derek, maybe?” He nudged his son’s shoulder. “C’mon, kiddo. Boxes aren’t going to move themselves.” 

Stiles nodded, but took a few more seconds to look. He wished he still had the story book, but it had been given away with most other mementos of his mother. _You’re too old for fairy tales_ , Noah had told his son after the funeral, tossing the well-loved book into a bag with stuffed toys and old clothing. Stiles hadn’t argued. The months after his mom’s death had been a frightening haze of Noah drinking late into the night, arguing with everyone he encountered, and forgetting to feed Stiles regularly. 

It had culminated in Noah losing his job at the sheriff’s department and finally accepting that he needed help. A few months later, Stiles found out they were going to live on the Hale Estate, where his mother’s old friend, Talia Hale, had hired Noah as her head of security. 

The job meant Stiles got to see a lot more of Derek, which made the abrupt transition from his old life a little easier. One night, not long after the move, Stiles was reading in the Hale Estate library, curled up in a window seat while his father attended an AA meeting. He was pulled from the story when he heard a group of older boys in the hallway outside the room. Curious, Stiles crept to the doorway and peered out. His heart beat faster when he saw Derek and two of his friends. They were all in high school, but when Stiles heard what they were arguing about, he felt confident he could talk to them despite their age gap. 

“…he’s from Marvel, not DC,” one boy was saying as Stiles stepped out of the library. 

“Yeah, but I’m saying it was a DC artist who did the first version of the Thor that turned into Marvel Thor,” Derek said. “So, yeah, Thor is from Marvel, but originally it was…somebody working for DC who did a DC comic that, I dunno, inspired him later when he was working with Stan Lee.”

“Jack Kirby,” Stiles interjected quietly, but none of the three high schoolers paid him any attention.

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter anyway. The movie looks like it’s going to be—” Derek’s friend broke off when Stiles spoke up again, more loudly this time.

“It was Jack Kirby. The artist who originally did the DC Thor. For _Tales of the Unexpected_. Derek’s right. It was before Jack Kirby worked with Stan Lee on Marvel’s Thor.” Stiles glanced up at Derek shyly. 

“Who are you?” one of Derek’s friends asked, flicking Stiles’s ear with a derisive noise. 

“Don’t pick on him,” Derek said, shoving his friend back good-naturedly. “He’s just a kid. His dad works for my mom.” 

Stiles bristled. He was allowed to stay in his dad’s apartment alone and he could read at a high-school level. He wasn’t _just a kid_. 

“It’s Stiles, right?” asked Derek, glancing at him. Every ounce of Stiles’s resentment melted away and he could only grin up at Derek’s perfect face. 

“Y-yeah…I’m Stiles,” he said shyly. “You, uh, you know my name.”

“Thanks for backing me up, Stiles,” Derek replied, one hand reaching out to casually tousle Stiles’s hair. Then he and the two other boys disappeared into the kitchen, lazily insulting each other and joking. Stiles stared after them. 

Derek knew his name. Derek knew who he was. The thought buoyed Stiles in a happy float the rest of the night, even when his dad came home with his usual sad expression. 

“Dad, how do you know when you love someone?” Stiles asked when Noah came to tuck him into bed. 

Noah sat down heavily and rubbed his eyes before turning a tired smile to his son. 

“In love already?” 

“I don’t know for sure,” Stiles said seriously. “Did you—with mom, I mean, what did your heart do?” 

“Your mom…” Noah sighed and brushed Stiles’s unruly hair back with a fond look. “She was special. I felt…I don’t know how to describe it. Like she was the sun and I was a tree.” Noah broke off and shook his head with a self-deprecating snort. “She made every day of my life better. Brighter.”

Stiles nodded solemnly. “I think I’m in love.” 

“Okay, kiddo. She’s very lucky, then, whoever she is.” 

“He’s lucky,” Stiles corrected. 

“Oh.” Noah blinked. “Well…then _he’s_ very lucky.” He brushed his lips over Stiles’s forehead and flipped off the light. “I’m happy for you, kid. Get some sleep now, okay?”

Stiles closed his eyes and dreamed about a forest and a lonely prince, trapped in a high tower. 

Over the next month, Stiles registered his dad’s eyes following him more closely, although Noah didn’t say anything further. But of course his dad noticed where Stiles’s attention lingered, and Noah must have kept Derek Hale more in his thoughts. Because a few months later, when it came out that Derek had been secretly dating a substitute teacher at Beacon Hills High, Talia Hale couldn’t thank Noah enough for figuring it out and saving them from a potentially ruinous corporate espionage problem. That substitute teacher was Kate Argent, the daughter of Gerard Argent, who ran the Maison chain of home-goods stores, Hale House & Home’s biggest business rival. 

All Stiles knew was that Derek had been furtively leaving for what he claimed were hours-long runs through the local nature preserve, and smiling secretively at odd moments when he thought no one was watching him. It turned out Noah had been watching Derek, except he’d put the puzzle together when none of the other Hales had realized there was something to solve. 

Derek left to finish high school out East, near Talia’s parents. Stiles felt hollow-chested and miserable, but getting to see his dad in action helped distract him from his romantic woes. Noah worked closely with law enforcement to ensure Kate Argent didn’t buy her way out of punishment. He was patient, thorough, and free of ego, and by the end, Stiles found himself genuinely proud of his dad for the first time in a long, long while. 

Talia and her younger brother, Peter, meanwhile, had worked out a separate, more personal plan of vengeance, and Maison stock slowly sank over the next year. The next year, a budget furniture store bought Maison outright and retired the name. Stiles didn’t hear much about the Argents after that. 

Without having to rush back to the Hale Estate every day after school to see if he could catch Derek watching television or swimming in the pool, Stiles had more time to make his own friends. His ADHD had never helped him socialize with kids his own age, but by the time he was fourteen, Stiles had acquired a group of his own: Scott and Isaac, who liked the same things Stiles liked, and Lydia, whom Stiles suspected had initially befriended him due to his residence at the Hale Estate. Over time, however, they’d bonded over their intellectual superiority. Lydia saw herself as a very sophisticated teenager, while Stiles enjoyed feeling cleverer than everyone around him. It was a surprisingly agreeable basis for friendship. 

The summer before the four of them were set to start high school, Derek Hale returned, freshly graduated from his prep school out East and about to attend a nearby university back in California. Stiles felt he was handling Derek’s reappearance very well, until Lydia asked him why the news had him looking like he was going to throw up. 

“It’s because he likes Derek,” Scott piped up, as if this were common knowledge. It wasn’t—Stiles had been weak and maudlin one night during a sleepover and confessed his crush. He would have taped his mouth shut if he’d realized Scott would so casually discuss it. 

“Scott!” Stiles hissed, shoving at Scott’s arm. 

“You _like_ Derek Hale?” Lydia asked, interested. 

“He’s…really…good looking,” Stiles mumbled, staring intensely down at the class-required summer reading they’d all met up to complain about. 

“Didn’t something happen to him a few years ago?” Isaac asked. “Like something bad. So bad he had to leave and go to school somewhere else?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Stiles told them firmly. Which, of course, meant Lydia had no greater purpose in life than ferreting out the scandal. Stiles pleaded with her not to stir up what had happened, and eventually put her off by giving her the basic outline and a heartfelt request not to spread it around and reopen old wounds.

Stiles couldn’t explain why he cared so much about Derek and Derek’s feelings. Only that the sight of Derek made Stiles feel simultaneously warm and breathless. Derek was a prince charming come to life, a perfect, fairy-tale ending who would be headed toward happily ever after if he’d just let Stiles take them there. 

Stiles, dazzled though he was by Derek, was a fixer and schemer at heart, and he saw all the places he could help Derek improve his life. 

For all four years of his high-school career, Stiles tried his best to be a force for good in Derek’s life and, as unobtrusively as possible, further Derek’s causes. When Derek thought he might like to be a photographer, Stiles spent hours serving as his assistant, arranging shots while Derek tilted his head and considered the best angle for each of his photographs. They didn’t talk much beyond Derek’s brusque, limited-word instructions, but Stiles got a glow of happiness from serving his idol in any way. 

When Derek was taken with the idea of golfing, Stiles fought off fierce competition and a pesky certification from the elite golf club to be Derek’s caddie. He also dealt with near-perpetual sunburn, mild dehydration, and a total lack of interest in the game. 

And when Derek backed the creation of a new animal vaccination project then got too wrapped up in his next passion—base jumping—to remember to organize any of the logistical necessities, Stiles rolled up his sleeves and personally herded innumerable skittish animals into the pop-up veterinary clinic he’d helped arrange. 

Stiles didn’t mind picking up after a Derek hurricane of enthusiasm. He loved that Derek had so many things he cared about. Stiles envied that about Derek—Stiles wished he himself were less single-minded. He knew Noah worried his son was setting himself up for a lonely life, and that his crush on Derek would never come to anything, but Stiles was determined. So determined, in fact, that he nearly turned down a full scholarship from Stanford to attend the local university. Derek was still a student there when Stiles turned eighteen and graduated from high school. The miscellaneous credits Derek had amassed—ranging from art to physics—didn’t qualify him for any degree. 

It took the combined persuasion of Noah, Scott, Isaac, and Lydia to make Stiles reluctantly agree to leave Beacon Hills for his undergraduate education, and in the end, if Stiles was honest, the thing that finally pushed him over was Scott’s earnest pledge to keep an eye on Derek for him, since Scott and Isaac were both staying in town for college. 

Noah hired his son as a part-time assistant the summer before college, and let him distract himself with finding new ways to improve security at the estate. Noah also pulled some strings to give Stiles a second part-time job at the sheriff’s station, and Stiles’s busy mind was sufficiently occupied with crimes to solve. Although Stiles was pretty sure the deputies hadn’t been as pleased as they could have been when he put together theories that proved correct. Repeatedly. 

**CHAPTER 2**

A few days before Stiles was scheduled to drive down to Stanford, Hale House & Home released the news that its founder and longtime company president, Talia Hale, was stepping back to focus on her winery and its new labels. The high-end kitchen- and home-goods chain would instead be run by Talia’s younger brother, Peter.

Stiles, engaged in his jobs and his anxiety over leaving for college, barely noted Peter’s triumphant return to the Hale Estate. He’d noticed Talia slowly moving her household from the estate to her new villa over in Napa, but hadn’t realized that meant Peter would be moving back in. 

Since Noah would retain his job and Derek was still in the process of acquiring his bachelor’s degree and wouldn’t move away, Stiles hadn’t cared much either way. He liked Talia, but he’d never had a lot of interaction with her, and he only remembered Peter as a sarcastic, self-satisfied man who didn’t seem to focus on anything other than how Hale House & Home was doing on the stock exchange. 

On Stiles’s last night at home, there was an enormous party on the estate grounds, celebrating Talia’s retirement and Peter’s new position as president. Stiles, whose own modest farewell party had been the day before and mostly involved balloons and a cake Isaac made, was lurking in the Hale garden, giving himself a pep talk on his plan to maximize the few remaining hours he had to be around Derek. 

He watched as Derek nicked a full bottle of champagne from the bar with a wink at the bartender. 

Derek made his way through the crowd, flirting and smiling under the twinkling glow of hundreds of fairy lights strung in the tree branches above. Stiles took a deep breath and rubbed his damp palms on the smooth material of his nicest slacks. He straightened his tie and cleared his throat a few times before stepping forward into the throng of glittering, moneyed partygoers. 

Stiles reached his quarry just as Derek had opened his mouth to speak to a tall, blond man and a curvy, smiling brunette. All three of them turned to stare at Stiles when he tripped and stumbled directly into Derek, rather than suavely stepping to his side as he’d intended. 

“I’m—I’m sorry…shit,” Stiles stammered, idiotically patting Derek’s bicep. 

Derek frowned then set Stiles back on his feet with raised eyebrows. 

“Do you need something?” he asked. 

“Oh…I…um,” Stiles nodded emphatically. “Yeah. Yes. I wanted to talk to you. I thought—maybe we could—if you’re not…busy?” 

Stiles could feel the humiliated flush rising in his cheeks. All his plans to impress Derek with how grown-up he’d become had just died sad, embarrassed deaths. His memory of the pleasant fantasy wherein he lured Derek to the greenhouse and seduced him as a spectacular farewell gesture made him cringe. 

“Are you all right?” Derek questioned, looking at him more closely. 

The brunette tittered into her champagne glass and Stiles glared at her. 

“I need to talk to you,” Stiles stubbornly pushed on, hoping he could at least get Derek beneath a romantic canopy of trees and try for his first kiss. 

“This will only take a minute, I’m sorry,” Derek said with an apologetic smile to the couple watching, setting his bottle down on a small table nearby. 

“Take your time, darling,” the blond man said, slipping an arm around the brunette’s bare shoulders. “We’ll be here the rest of the night, after all.” 

He straightened the lapels on Derek’s evening jacket in a familiar, proprietary way and Derek winked at him. 

Stiles’s gaze darted from the self-assured smirk on the man’s face to the knowing look in the woman’s eyes, then back to Derek’s inviting smile. He took Derek’s hand and all but dragged him to the greenhouse.

“Stiles, what is going on?” Derek demanded, sounding cranky and put-upon. 

Stiles turned to face him with a scowl. 

“Are you… _with_ those two?”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Derek said, adjusting his cuffs, “but…yes. Sort of. I mean, we’ve had a good time this summer and they’re friends.”

“Friends with benefits?” Stiles asked, horrified to hear how his voice squeaked on the last word. 

“Stiles,” Derek sighed. “What do you want? I’d like to get back to my guests.”

“I—” Stiles gave up trying to find the right words and just lunged forward to press his lips against Derek’s. Derek didn’t react right away and Stiles tried to open his mouth a little to see if that made it any better. Kissing had sounded much more exciting when Lydia described her experiences. 

Derek made a muffled noise and firmly pushed Stiles back. 

“Are you drunk?” Derek asked, looking torn between annoyance and amusement. “I won’t tell your dad, kid. But you should take it easy, okay?”

“I’m not drunk!” Stiles protested, hurt and furious. “I just kissed you, Derek! What…did you not…what did you think?” His voice was very small. 

“C’mon, Stiles. You’re a teenager and you’re like a little…cousin to me, I guess.” Derek put a hand on Stiles’s shoulder. “Let’s just forget this happened, all right? When you sober up tomorrow, you’ll wonder what you saw in me, I promise.” Derek squeezed his shoulder once then started to walk back to the party. “Good luck at school, kid. I’m flattered, really, but you should probably get some sleep.” 

Stiles, unable to move from the pit of shame and heartbreak he’d fallen into, just watched as Derek’s broad shoulders disappeared into the sparkling crowd. 

The dreams Stiles had woven about Derek liking him back, kissing him back, unraveled all at once and Stiles realized how ridiculous he must seem. He stood still for another moment, his stomach feeling hollow and a high-pitched ringing in his ears. 

Derek thought he was drunk? Stiles was starting to think he should have gone that way much earlier in the evening. With determined strides, Stiles made his way to the kitchen entrance, where he disabled the alarm with shaking fingers then slipped inside the darkened room. Stiles had spent endless evenings eating at the well-worn table and helping out after school, and he recognized the shadowy shapes of the appliances even in the low light. He found his way with unerring direction to the cabinet where the chef kept her collection of liqueurs. The really hard stuff was in the chef’s office, but Stiles thought he’d heard her say once that most liqueurs weren’t very strong. He wouldn’t get wasted, then. He’d just…relax a little. 

Stiles opened a square bottle of something sweet-smelling and took a sip. The amber liquid reminded him of Christmas and marzipan and he drank more deeply. It tasted good, like a sharp-edged dessert. Every time he’d seen his dad drink, it was always harsh, smoky-smelling stuff. It still scared Stiles a little, the idea of being as out of control as Noah had been, so he’d never really experimented with underage drinking. 

Well, not until he’d been rejected by the love of his life, that was. 

Stiles took another swig, feeling his tense muscles loosen as a warm feeling spread from his stomach through his limbs. He succumbed to the sensation, slipping down to sit on the floor, his back to a wall of cabinets. He continued to take sips straight from the bottle, enjoying the mellow glow it gave him. 

He hiccuped, tasting almonds and sugar, and realized he’d nearly emptied the bottle. The chef was not going to be pleased. Stiles squinted at the label and wondered if his fake ID would stand up to buying Amaretto at a liquor store. The issue was pushed aside when he heard footsteps outside the kitchen. 

Stiles instinctively pressed back into the alcove next to the oven and tried to breathe quietly. It was not an easy task when he kept listing to one side. He frowned and tried to prop himself up to prevent this new and inexplicable tendency to wobble. The sudden movement threw his impaired balance entirely out of whack, and Stiles tipped into a wheeled cart full of drying mixing bowls, spilling them onto the tile floor with a deafening clatter. 

He froze, hoping the footsteps had been moving away from the kitchen. As the final echoes died down and the last bowl stopped spinning, however, the lights came up, exposing scattered metal bowls, an empty bottle of Amaretto, and a wide-eyed teenager blinking into the unexpected brightness. 

“What’s going on here?” an angry voice demanded. Stiles squinted against the ceiling lights and realized with a stomach-turning suddenness that the voice’s owner was Peter Hale. 

“Oh, shit,” said Stiles, then hiccuped again. 

“Are you—” Peter moved closer with a sniff, then jerked back with an expression of distaste. “Are you getting drunk in here on _almond liqueur_?” 

“I’m fine. Just warm,” replied Stiles, enunciating with what he felt was laudable precision. “Sorry about the bowls,” he added after a minute. “They surprised me.” 

Peter frowned down at him for what felt like a very long time, cool blue eyes considering. 

“You can’t stay here. Come on, let’s sober you up.” He reached down and pulled Stiles upright with both arms, taking his weight easily. Stiles lurched forward, crashing into Peter’s solid chest with a small grunt. 

“‘M _fine_ ,” Stiles said again. 

“I can see that.” Peter turned Stiles toward the scarred, wooden table in the corner and pushed him onto a chair. Then he gathered up the bowls and put them into the wide sink. “What happened to you?” he asked as he next maneuvered Stiles through the kitchen and into the small garden outside. 

“Derek hates me,” Stiles moaned, leaning on Peter as they emerged into the moonlit green space. 

“Derek?” Peter sounded taken aback. 

“Yeah, he…he wouldn’t kiss me.” Stiles’s face crumpled and he jerked away from Peter’s grasp to fling himself down onto a stone bench. 

“Well,” Peter began, sitting next to him. “I hear you’re headed to Stanford tomorrow morning. Derek won’t be there.”

“That’s the problem,” sighed Stiles, propping his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. “I won’t get to see him anymore. And he hates me. He thinks I’m a kid.”

“Hm.” 

“I’m eighteen!” Stiles said to the ground, loudly. 

“Old enough to vote,” agreed Peter. 

“Old enough to get kissed by Derek Hale, anyway,” Stiles muttered. He contemplated the way the moonlight cast shadows from the trees overhead. “How did you know I’m going to Stanford tomorrow?” 

“This is my home again,” said Peter. “I made the decision to keep on all the staff, your father included. Talia didn’t just turn over the company to me, she turned over the household, as well. It’s important to know all your employees.”

“I don’t work for the Hale family,” Stiles pointed out. 

“There isn’t a lot that happens here that I don’t know,” Peter replied. “Stanford is an excellent school,” he continued. “I did my undergraduate work there—some of the best years of my life. Your father said you’ll be studying literature.”

“Yeah, I want to write,” said Stiles. “I bet you don’t think there’s much of a future in that? After all, I’ll probably never make any real money.”

“‘Art is not what you see, but what you make others see’,” said Peter. “What would we be without writers and painters and musicians? More than one kind of person is needed for a full society to function.” 

“Huh.” Stiles blinked. “That’s very enlightened, coming from the head of a giant corporation.”

“I own quite a lot of valuable art, Mischief,” Peter responded drily. 

“You—Mischief. That’s…no one’s called me that for a long time.” 

“What do you prefer now?” asked Peter, as if he didn’t know—as he’d said—everything that went on at the Hale house. 

“Oh, y’know. Mieczysław.” Stiles stifled a giggle and put his palms over his hot cheeks. “Oh, shit,” he blurted out, the urge to laugh gone. “Think I’m gonna be sick.” 

Stiles slid off the bench onto hard-packed dirt, falling to his knees and vomiting into a cluster of rhododendrons. He wheezed, trapped in his own misery, and nearly threw up on himself when Peter’s unyielding arm wrapped around his shoulders, supporting him. 

“Take it easy,” Peter murmured, unexpectedly soothing. “Just get it out, don’t worry about the flowers.”

“I-I wasn’t,” Stiles panted, and heard Peter chuckle. His stomach heaved again, then settled a bit. Stiles sat back, heedless of the way it pressed him against Peter’s side. 

“Feel better?” asked Peter, and Stiles nodded. 

“Yeah, I…I don’t drink much. Sorry about the mess.”

“You managed to miss me,” Peter assured him. “Let’s go back in the house before I get you home. I think something else in your stomach besides dessert liqueur would help.”

“No food,” groaned Stiles, but Peter ignored him and in short order, Stiles found himself seated again at the kitchen table with a glass of water, this time watching Peter slip on an apron and start up one of the gas burners. 

“I’m never drinking Amaretto again. Is this a terrible drunk dream?” Stiles asked, dazed. 

Peter cast him a sharply amused glance as he expertly cracked a couple of eggs one-handed into a bowl. 

“I should be offended,” he said. “I don’t cook for many people.” 

“ _Can_ you cook?” Stiles wondered. 

“I don’t just sell frying pans—I can also use them.” 

“Oh.” Stiles put his chin in his hand and watched Peter move confidently around the kitchen. He whisked the eggs with brisk, sure movements, adding salt and pepper and a little cheese. Stiles found the sight oddly hypnotic, and he was silent as Peter chopped various green plants and some mushrooms, then folded them into what turned into a beautifully golden omelet. 

“Bon appétit,” said Peter with a little flourish as he placed a white plate in front of Stiles. 

“Thanks,” said Stiles, coming out of his fugue with a start. Peter handed him a fork and Stiles stared down at the omelet doubtfully. It _looked_ like it tasted good, but his stomach wasn’t totally sold on the idea of food. 

“Take a bite,” Peter said in something close to an order. Stiles automatically put a piece in his mouth and chewed. The flavor of it—creamy and salty—was delicious. Stiles made an involuntary hum of appreciation. 

“Is that—” He swallowed. “Is that feta cheese?” 

“Feta, herbs, mushrooms. Cooked in butter. Fresh eggs. Just eat until you’re not so wretched, hm? You won’t offend me if you don’t finish it.” 

Stiles ate most of the omelet, every bite as wonderful as the one before. 

“You’re good at this,” he told Peter solemnly. 

“You’re still a little drunk,” Peter replied, just as seriously. Stiles laughed and Peter got him another tall glass of water, which he made Stiles drink to the final drop. 

When Stiles had helped Peter clean everything up, they made their way to the Stilinski apartment over the garage. Stiles walked more and more slowly as they neared the building, eventually coming to a stop when they were a few steps from the side entrance. 

“Feeling sick again?” Peter asked. 

“Not from drinking,” replied Stiles. “I just feel really dumb.”

“Everyone has crushes. It’s part of growing up. You’re about to start the next part of your life, and if you’re making that fresh start at Stanford, it says nothing but complimentary things about you.”

“Thanks.” Stiles fidgeted with the cuffs of his shirt. “You’ve been…really nice tonight. I’m pretty sure I’m going to look at this whole mess tomorrow morning and want to throw up again.”

“You’re going to be fine,” said Peter firmly. “You’ll do well at Stanford, Mieczysław.” 

“Thanks,” said Stiles again. “And…you can call me Stiles.”

“All right.” Peter gave him a small smile. “Good night, Stiles. Good luck.”

Stiles nodded and went to the door, feeling Peter’s watchful gaze until he was completely inside. Noah was asleep already, and the only light in the apartment came from a single lamp on the hall table. Stiles got ready for bed in a series of habitual movements, still a little off-kilter from the unaccustomed drinking and the emotional upheaval of the night. He shied away from remembering Derek’s dismissal, focusing instead on what Peter had said. A fresh start. He could be anything he wanted to be, starting tomorrow. 

**CHAPTER 3**

_Four Years Later_

Scott picked Stiles up at the Beacon Hills train station the day after Stanford’s commencement. Noah was overseeing an event for Talia at her Napa winery, so Scott had happily volunteered to get Stiles back to the estate. Scott greeted Stiles with an enthusiastic hug and a twenty-minute ode to his fiancée, Kira. Stiles, who had met Kira on multiple occasions and knew exactly what her smile, fencing moves, and sushi-making skills looked like, mostly nodded and made vague noises of agreement. He tried several times to get Scott to move toward the parking lot, but eventually gave up and let Scott wind down naturally. 

“Thanks again for coming to get me,” Stiles interjected when Scott paused for a breath. 

“No problem!” Scott beamed. 

“I really appreciate you taking me home,” said Stiles. 

“Oh, actually I need to stop by the vet’s office first. Do you mind?”

“I’m not in a hurry,” Stiles said. “How’s the job?”

“I can get the vet degree locally, and I think Dr. Deaton will let me join the practice when I graduate. It’s really good.”

“I’m happy for you, Scott.” Stiles smiled; Scott’s joy was infectious. “Getting married, getting your dream job…it’s really great to see.”

“Do you want to come to the office with me? I just have to grab some textbooks I left there.”

“I think I’ll get a coffee from that place across the street and wait for you there, if that works?”

“Sounds good,” said Scott. He gave Stiles another quick hug and headed toward the veterinary office a couple of blocks away. 

Stiles crossed the street and ordered a complicated, coffee-flavored confection that contained equal quantities of sugar and caffeine. He took the drink outside, chewing absently on the straw as he chose a small table from which to watch the downtown traffic. 

For the most part, Beacon Hills’ demographics hadn’t changed in the four years Stiles had been away—mostly a mix of young families and retirees. He ran his eyes over the same drugstore and ice-cream parlor and hardware shop he remembered. There was a new bakery with a yoga studio upstairs, and the old comic-book place had expanded into the storefront next door, but the diner where he’d spent hours with Scott, Lydia, and Isaac was still doing a brisk business. 

Stiles slurped up some caramel-flavored iced coffee and tipped his head back for a minute to enjoy the summer sun. It was warm but not too hot yet, and the breeze brought the scents of freshly cut grass and waffle cones and car exhaust. It was a pleasant, nostalgic combination. Stiles slipped on his sunglasses and settled in for Scott’s inevitably longer-than-expected errand. 

The sunglasses had been a gift from Lydia, and Stiles had been afraid to know how much they cost. Lydia had adopted Stiles as a fashion disaster in need of rescue during his second year of college—she had gone to UC Berkeley for undergrad and they’d seen each other every couple of months. After Lydia’s intervention, Stiles’s dating life had picked up considerably, a fact she attributed to tighter jeans. He knew enough by graduation to be able to recognize that he probably needed a slim fit in a lot of things, but, for the most part, he just let Lydia curate a fashion Instagram feed and shopped accordingly. 

Stiles tapped his fingers on the table as he drank, amusing himself by sorting the passersby into _local_ and _tourist_ categories. A man walking up to the coffee shop from the art and frame store captured his attention and Stiles’s gaze caught when he realized he was looking at six feet and two inches of dark-haired, green-eyed, inarguably handsome Derek Hale. He took his sunglasses off and verified with clear eyes that it was, indeed, Derek. 

Seemingly of their own volition, Stiles’s lips curved into a huge, welcoming smile. He lifted his hand in what was probably a very inelegant wave, catching Derek’s attention. 

“Hey, how are you?” Stiles called as Derek paused on the sidewalk in front of Stiles’s table. He immediately wished he could take the words back when Derek stopped with a frown. 

“I’m…fine,” said Derek, still frowning. 

“…uh, good?” Stiles bit his lip and looked away, hoping the inspiration for a brilliant response would appear in his coffee. It did not. Stiles glanced up through his lashes at Derek, trying to decide how best to minimize his inevitable embarrassment if Derek brought up the last time they’d seen each other. 

To Stiles’s astonishment, Derek’s frown melted away and something that could only be described as an appreciative stare took its place. 

“Is this seat taken?” Derek asked. 

“Nope,” said Stiles, willing his voice calm. 

“Mind if I take it?” Derek asked with a wink. A suggestive wink. 

“No,” Stiles said after a minute pause. There was no recognition on Derek’s face, just admiration and interest. Stiles smiled again and raised his eyebrows. “Derek Hale, right?”

“Yes,” replied Derek as he sat down at the table. “Do I know you?” 

“We’ve met,” said Stiles. 

“I think I’d remember,” Derek told him, that appreciative look back. 

“Flatterer,” Stiles murmured, taking a long suck on his straw and watching how Derek watched. 

“UC Beacon Hills?” Derek asked. Stiles shook his head and bit gently on the tip of the straw. Derek tilted his head, a look of concentration putting a little divot between his eyebrows. “Sinema? The Jungle?” 

“Sorry,” said Stiles with a shrug. “I must not be that memorable after all.” 

“Come on,” Derek insisted. He snapped his fingers. “Got it. You’re one of my sister’s friends.” 

“Wait a bit. It’ll come to you,” Stiles said with a smirk. 

“Are you from around here?” Derek persisted.

“Most of my life,” answered Stiles. 

“And I thought I knew all the pretty boys in town,” Derek laughed. 

Stiles laughed, too, but he heard the slightly hysterical note in it. The idea that he would be sitting in the summer sun while Derek Hale flirted with him was surreal. 

“I’ll figure it out,” Derek vowed. 

Stiles nodded and tried out a look Lydia had said was very close to sultry. Derek appeared to agree with her assessment, given the dilation of his pupils and the way his eyes darted to Stiles’s lips. 

“Listen,” Derek said, sounding almost breathy, “my family’s having a party tomorrow night at the Hale house. It’s my mom’s birthday. I’d love it if you stopped by.”

“Really?” Stiles couldn’t disguise the disbelief in his voice. 

“Why not?” Derek shrugged and smiled his charming smile. “Come around eight. I think there’ll be fireworks once it’s dark. Do you know where it is?” 

“Yeah, but… Well,” Stiles began, but before he could decide whether or not to embrace the wild turn of events, another Hale strolled up to his table. 

“Hello, Stiles,” said Peter. “How was Stanford?”

“Oh—” Stiles started.

“Stiles?” Derek gaped. 

“Just as good as you said it would be,” Stiles said, trying to divide his attention between Derek’s open-mouthed astonishment and Peter’s polite questioning. 

“Your father says you graduated with honors. Congratulations. Home for the summer?” Peter continued.

“ _Stiles?_ ” Derek said again. 

“I’m trying to finish a novel,” said Stiles, while Peter turned a concerned and annoyed frown to his nephew. 

“Stiles… _Stiles_?” Derek mumbled.

“Why does he keep saying that?” asked Peter. 

“Hey, Stiles!” Scott appeared on Stiles’s other side, three large textbooks in his arms. “Ready to go home?”

“Definitely,” said Stiles, standing up and grabbing his drink. “It was nice to see you again, Peter, Derek.”

“I’m sure we’ll see you again soon,” Peter responded, shaking Stiles’s hand. 

“Oh…yeah…probably?” Stiles nodded and pushed Scott toward the crosswalk. 

“What was that all about?” Scott demanded as Stiles hurried them to the train station parking lot. “Was that Peter Hale? And Derek? What were you doing with Derek?”

“Nothing, weird coincidence. No big deal. What did Kira think of that sweater you got her for her birthday?”

“The green one? Or the yellow one?” 

“Yes,” Stiles agreed. 

“She _said_ she liked the green one, but I’ve only seen her wear the yellow one,” Scott replied, willing to be diverted from his original purpose if Kira was involved. Stiles let him go on another Kira-related tangent until they were on the road and far from the sight of any Hale family members. 

The ride back to the Hale Estate passed pleasantly; Scott put all the windows down and Stiles watched the increasingly wooded scenery flash by, inhaling the pine-scented air while Scott talked about his upcoming wedding. 

When they pulled past the main house and back to the Stilinski apartment, Scott helped Stiles carry his bags upstairs and left after a brief but heartfelt hug and a promise to get together soon. Stiles abandoned his bags by the front door and collapsed onto the couch, the familiar surroundings of his dad’s belongings soothing him. He exhaled gustily and propped his feet up on the coffee table. 

_Derek Hale._

“Derek Hale,” Stiles said aloud, the disbelief in his voice evident even to him. It wasn’t that Stiles hadn’t dated while at Stanford. He had. In fact, before seeing Derek that morning, Stiles would have said his long-time crush had passed with the final days of his childhood. But the sight of Derek’s handsome face and confident grin had brought Stiles’s old feelings back up with all the subtlety of a punch to the gut. 

Stiles’s phone chirped and he glanced over to see that Lydia had texted him with a dinner invitation, which he accepted and then offered to host. He wanted to spend time with her this summer—she had already been accepted to Princeton for graduate work in mathematics in the fall and was only home for a couple of months. 

He dragged himself off the couch and took his bags to his old bedroom, where things mostly looked the same, except cleaner than when he had actually lived there. Stiles dumped his bags onto his bed and wandered around the room. He had been home for holidays, but he had worked on-campus the last few summers and this would be the longest period he’d spent back in Beacon Hills since he had left at eighteen. Stiles opened his closet with the intention of hanging up some of his clothing and was distracted by a couple of boxes of books crammed into a back corner.

Several hours passed with Stiles immersed in an old series of kids’ adventure books he found, and he realized it was evening only when there was a knock at the door. He returned to the front room and opened the door to find not only Lydia, but also Scott and Isaac. 

“Hey,” said Stiles, blinking. 

“Reunion time!” Scott said as Lydia swept by him and started setting up the table for the takeout Isaac was carrying. 

“Thanks for bringing the food,” Stiles said, realizing he hadn’t checked to see if there was anything to drink besides tap water. 

“I brought beer!” Scott told him, holding up two brown-paper bags. 

“Thank you,” said Stiles. He put the beer in the refrigerator and helped Lydia and Isaac unpack an ambitious amount of Indian takeout. 

“So,” Lydia said when they’d all settled in with full plates and open drinks. “Scott says you saw Derek Hale today.”

Stiles shot Scott an annoyed look. 

“Not even twenty-four hours?” he asked. 

“You know I can’t keep secrets,” Scott protested. “Besides, you said it wasn’t a big deal. I thought you were over Derek. Like, for a while.”

“I was—I _am_ ,” Stiles said. 

“He’s engaged, you know,” Lydia announced, delicately dipping a piece of naan into her bright-red curry. “The wedding is at the end of the month.”

“He’s…what?” asked Stiles. “I don’t care…I’m just—he’s getting _married_? Derek?” 

“It was a quick engagement,” Lydia said. She paused to chew the bread. “Whoever’s making the wedding arrangements has to be a miracle worker.”

“Her name’s Elizabeth Braeden Tyson,” Isaac interjected. “The bride, I mean. Derek’s…person.” He had been fairly quiet after giving Stiles a big, welcome-home hug, mostly devoting his attention to consuming an entire carton of saag paneer. Stiles assumed Issac was done growing—he was taller than everyone else—but it probably took a lot of calories to maintain that height. 

“She goes by Braeden,” added Scott. “She’s actually pretty cool.”

“How did _you_ meet one of the Tysons?” Lydia demanded. 

“Her dog swallowed a chicken bone the last time she was in town and she took him to Dr. Deaton’s office,” explained Scott. “I liked her.”

“The Tysons own a very profitable company that makes a special kind of silicone-based bakeware. Supposedly, they’ve just filed a patent for some material that’s even better. Peter Hale is in talks to make Hale House & Home the exclusive distributor…and it’s convenient that his nephew and the Tyson heir happened to fall in love,” Lydia informed them. 

“How do you know so much about specialty bakeware?” Scott asked with a confused frown. 

“Scott. I’ve been an investor in Hale House & Home since I was eighteen. A very minor investor, granted, with just a few shares, but I like to know what’s happening with the companies I have a stake in.” Lydia adjusted her dress primly. “You’re never too young to start investing money.” 

Scott, Isaac, and Stiles gave each other matching blank looks. 

“I have about thirty dollars in my checking account,” said Isaac. 

“I’m going to be paying off veterinary school until I’m eighty,” said Scott. 

“You know most writers are broke or have other jobs,” said Stiles. 

Lydia sighed. 

“So Derek’s engaged. So what?” Isaac said after a minute. “I’ll bet you won’t even see him that much, Stiles. Derek’s going to be busy with this bakeware heiress and you’re writing a book. It’ll be fine.”

“Derek invited me to the party tomorrow. Talia’s birthday party.” Stiles got all the words out in a rush. 

“…and?” Lydia asked, eyebrows raised. 

“I’m going,” said Stiles. 

“Is that really a good idea?” asked Scott. 

“It’ll be like…an exorcism,” said Stiles reasonably. “I’ll get the whole Derek Hale thing out of my system. We’ll flirt, we’ll drink, I’ll say goodbye, he’ll get married. I’ll get, uh, closure.”

“Uh-huh.” Isaac winked at him. 

“He’s _engaged_ ,” Stiles reminded Isaac. 

“And you’re going to flirt with him anyway.” Scott sounded very disapproving.

“I don’t even know if he loves her,” said Stiles. “Lydia made it sound like it was some kind of business arrangement.”

Lydia looked thoughtful. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” she agreed.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Scott insisted. 

“It sounds harmless,” Isaac said. 

“I’m not going to sleep with him, I’m just going to…you know…closure.” Stiles drank the rest of his beer. 

“You’re not changing your mind, hm?” Lydia eyed Stiles speculatively. He shook his head. “Okay,” she said. “At least let me tell you what to wear.” 

**CHAPTER 4**

The vast, formal garden on the Hale Estate had been the site of countless parties. Stiles had watched past events through the window of his bedroom or the branches of a tree or the wrought-iron bars of the gate. When he was much younger, he had made charts and lists of arriving guests and their movements the way his favorite spy characters did in books or movies. As he stood just outside the garden’s wisteria-covered entrance that evening, he wondered what his child-self would have thought of him, in his summer-weight suit and polished shoes, his hair styled to look somehow artless and sophisticated at the same time. 

Stiles held out his hands and watched them tremble slightly. He then stuck them into his pockets, took a steadying breath, and stepped forward to join the rest of the crowd. Everyone ostensibly was there to celebrate the birthday of Talia Hale, but in reality was more likely to spend time drinking and deal-making. Everyone except Stiles, that was, whose attention was focused on just one deal. 

“Stiles.” Derek’s voice was instantly recognizable. Stiles turned to see the object of his confused affection coming toward him with the kind of smile Derek usually reserved for beautiful men and women. 

“Derek,” said Stiles, feeling helplessly charmed before Derek had said more than his name. 

“You came,” Derek said. “You look…”

“Older?” Stiles suggested with a wry smile, one eyebrow raised. 

“Very handsome,” Derek corrected. 

“Well, so do you. Look handsome, I mean. Also older? Not in a bad way.” Stiles grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and gulped most of it down in one swallow. 

“How was college?” Derek asked as he put a warm hand beneath Stiles’s elbow and drew him deeper into the garden. 

“Great. Great!” Stiles finished off the champagne. Apparently not even an insanely expensive suit and cologne Lydia swore by could make him sound debonair. 

“I graduated right before Christmas myself,” Derek said, picking up two more glasses of champagne and handing one to Stiles. 

“Wow, really? Congratulations!” Stiles beamed. “What did you end up majoring in?” 

“Business.”

Stiles blinked and took a sip of champagne. 

“Wow,” he said again. 

“I know, it took me a while to figure out what I wanted to do,” said Derek. 

“Yeah—I mean, no. You were so passionate about your projects.” 

“Figured I’d accept that Hale House & Home is partly mine, too.” Derek stared down into the glittering contents of his flute glass for a minute before turning his smile back up to Stiles. 

“I’m sure you’ll be great,” Stiles said in support. He wondered if Derek had ever seen a spreadsheet before taking Stats 101 then immediately banished the disloyal thought, groping mentally for a different topic of conversation. “Uh…my friend Scott said he met your—the Tyson family…” 

Of all the things to bring up, he just had to go for the one roadblock to his evening of closure-flirting, Stiles thought miserably. Sometimes he suspected his brain sabotaged him on purpose. 

“Braeden? She’s…” Derek, at a rare loss for words, made a vague gesture with the hand that had been cupping Stiles’s elbow. 

“Well, congratulations on that,” said Stiles. “I hear you’re getting married soon.”

“She asked me,” Derek said. 

“So you aren’t getting married?”

“Things have been crazy,” Derek said with a laugh, although Stiles saw a shadow pass over his face. “Braeden’s been out of town for more than two months—she left pretty soon after we, uh, got engaged. She’s a doctor and she’s been volunteering overseas. She teaches self-defense classes, too. She’s…” Derek made the vague gesture again. 

“Yeah, she sounds…great.” Stiles winced as he heard the word great come out of his mouth for what seemed like the billionth time that evening. “Well. Thanks for asking me to the party. Where’s Talia? I should wish her a happy birthday. I brought her a gift, too.”

“We’ll find her in a few minutes. I haven’t been showing you a very good time, have I?” Derek leaned a little closer, taking Stiles’s empty champagne glass and setting it on the tray of a passing waiter. 

“I’m just here to say hello,” Stiles hedged. 

“I was so surprised when Peter told me who you were,” Derek continued, hand now resting on Stiles’s upper back. 

“Oh?” The heat from Derek’s palm was very distracting, and Stiles felt as though the air had thinned. His breathing quickened and he leaned back a little into Derek’s arm. 

“You were such a smart kid. Always there to help me. I found some old photos yesterday afternoon. Do you remember being my photography assistant?” Derek guided Stiles into the deeper shadows of an overhanging tree. 

“Yeah, yep. You were very, uh, dedicated to your art.” Stiles let himself be moved, heart pounding and mind empty of his earlier hesitation. The idea of Derek being engaged seemed very far away. Instead, Stiles focused on the heady, spicy scent of Derek’s cologne and the way the twinkling lights blurred beyond the clean lines of Derek’s face. 

“Have you ever seen the conservatory during one of these parties? It’s magical. You can still hear the music.” Derek bent his head to breathe the words into Stiles’s ear and Stiles shivered. “Want to meet me there? Ten minutes. I’ll bring more champagne.” 

“Okay,” whispered Stiles. Closure-flirting in private sounded good. 

“Ten minutes. Go now and I’ll see you very, very soon,” Derek said, then slipped away, heading toward the bar and its iced champagne bottles. 

Stiles took a few steadying breaths and let a dazed grin widen his mouth. He adjusted his clothing discreetly then casually ducked out of the formal garden and around the back of the house. The conservatory was gently lit by candle-like bulbs and the brilliance of the moon. Stiles entered quietly and found a bench beside a cluster of potted bushes bearing night-blooming flowers. 

Several minutes passed. Stiles glanced down at his watch. Seven minutes. He rose and paced around the space, stopping periodically to touch the silky petals of a closed flower or try to determine if a cluster of dark berries was red or black. When ten minutes came and went, Stiles wished he’d brought his phone with him, instead of leaving it behind to charge in his bedroom. He plucked a leaf from one of the small trees and fidgeted with the stem, twirling it between his fingers. 

It was nearly thirty minutes later that Stiles slumped onto the bench again, deflated and disappointed. He leaned his head against the trunk of a sturdy potted tree behind him and told himself he would give Derek another five minutes. It was very still in the glass-walled room, and without the sounds of his own shoes scraping on the stone floor, Stiles could hear other noises.

Derek had been right; the faint strains of a torch song floated into the conservatory on the night breeze. The tune was sweet but sad, that particular brand of melancholy so beloved in decades past. Stiles caught snatches of the lyrics as he tried to relax. Derek would be there any minute. He’d probably gotten caught up with guests eager to talk to him. 

Stiles jumped to his feet when the door to the conservatory swung open, its creaking hinges obscuring the song’s final notes. The bright moonlight illuminated a tall figure in a closely cut suit and Stiles started forward with a happy “Derek!” on his lips. 

But it wasn’t Derek. Instead, Stiles realized, it was Peter Hale. Peter Hale with a bottle of champagne and two glasses that glinted in the moonlight. 

“Where’s Derek?” Stiles asked, looking from Peter’s face to the champagne bottle, puzzled. 

“Derek had an accident—he’s fine,” Peter said, preempting Stiles’s alarmed exclamation. “Just a little accident, nothing serious. He sat on some champagne glasses and he’s with the doctor now. He asked me to come out here to see you.”

“Oh.” Stiles put his hands back into his pockets. “Well, thanks for telling me. I won’t keep you.”

“Wait,” said Peter, moving forward. “Stay for a drink, at least? Derek felt terrible about missing you. Let me make it up to you.” 

Peter popped the cork out of the bottle and poured two glasses, chilled liquid frothing to the edge and spilling over in glittering bubbles. Stiles took the glass Peter held to him automatically and brought it to his lips, where it fizzed pleasantly before he swallowed a mouthful. Peter watched him over the rim of his own glass, expression difficult to read. 

“What’s your book about? The one you’re writing?” asked Peter. 

“It’s a mystery,” Stiles answered. “It’s about a small-town sheriff who has to figure out what’s responsible for a spate of murders.”

“ _What’s_ responsible? Don’t you mean who?”

“It’s kind of a supernatural mystery,” Stiles said. 

“So what kind of creature does this small-town sheriff face?” Peter topped off their glasses and propped a hip on the edge of a tall pot containing a magnolia. Its glossy leaves brushed against his face and spread out behind him, giving him the air of a forest god. 

“Werewolves,” said Stiles, unsure if Peter would find the concept too whimsical. 

“And are these werewolves the evil creatures of the night the murders suggest?” Peter tilted his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. Stiles’s shoulders relaxed at the easy, curious tone and he smiled back. 

“Some of them are. Some of them aren’t. They’re like humans. Complicated.” 

“Sounds interesting,” said Peter. He turned his head toward the door and listened for a second to the music from the party. “I remember a night like this four years ago.”

“I was a kid.” Stiles flushed in embarrassment. 

“Did you want Derek to bring you back here then?” 

“Yeah. I had a crush.” Stiles set his glass down on the bench and shrugged. “I’d seen him before, at parties like that. He always found someone exciting and beautiful and took them to the conservatory or the tennis court. They’d drink champagne and dance. It looked…special.” 

“I’m sure Derek would like to do those things with you, too. I’m sure it’s what he had planned for this evening,” said Peter lightly. 

Stiles shrugged again, feeling awkward and a little sad. He startled when Peter drew close enough to put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Would it be so bad if I danced with you instead? Think of it as a message from Derek,” Peter murmured. Stiles hesitated, then let himself lean into the warm solidity of Peter’s body. Peter led him carefully into the steps of a slow foxtrot, guiding Stiles through the novel experience of following a dance partner. The music was quiet but clear in the cooling air. 

“This was playing that night, too,” Stiles remembered, every step growing easier as he allowed Peter’s strong arms to show him how to move. 

_“Quand il me prend dans ses bras/Il me parle tout bas/Je vois la vie en rose.”_ The vocalist’s voice was warm and flexible, backed by the soft sigh of a string section. The words felt like a caress and Stiles rested his temple against Peter’s cheek. 

“What else did you want Derek to do?” Peter asked softly against Stiles’s ear. 

_“Et dés que je t’aperçois/Alors je sens dans moi/Mon coeur qui bat”_ —the song was drawing to a close. 

“Kiss me, I guess,” Stiles replied, burying the response in Peter’s smooth jacket. 

Peter paused their motions and tilted Stiles’s face up. He brought their mouths together gently, a simple brush of lips. Stiles’s breath hitched and he froze, shocked and aroused. 

“All in the family,” said Peter, and Stiles stiffened. 

“Let go of me,” Stiles snapped, pulling back. 

“I apologize if that was too forward—”

“I’m going to go now,” said Stiles, turning toward the door. “I hope you know I plan to check on Derek.”

“Wait until tomorrow morning. He’s probably not ready for visitors tonight,” said Peter, as calm and collected as ever. As if he hadn’t just kissed Stiles in a moonlit conservatory while listening to French love songs. 

“Thanks,” said Stiles, and hurried all the way back to the apartment over the garage. 

**CHAPTER 5**

Peter left the conservatory shortly after Stiles fled and went back to Derek’s room, where Derek reclined in bed, knocked out from painkillers and drooling into a stack of pillows. Talia sat in an armchair by the window, aggressively typing messages into her phone that were likely to terrorize one of her assistants. 

“What’s the prognosis?” Peter asked, keeping his voice low. 

“A day or two of bedrest. He had some stitches. Nothing serious,” Talia replied, putting her phone down to fix Peter with her usual piercing stare. Peter was immune to the intensity; he’d dealt with Talia his entire life, and, despite their significant age gap, he was still her brother and had photos of some of her awkward teenage years. It helped to bring those images to mind when Talia was at her most impressively disapproving. “You could have just told him to stay away from Stiles. You didn’t have to maim him.”

“I didn’t _maim_ him, Talia,” Peter said. “If he was idiotic enough to sit down on champagne glasses he’d put into his own back pockets, that’s on him.”

“You did tell him to sit down,” Talia pointed out.

“Well, that was probably the first time in his life Derek listened to anything I told him to do.”

“I suppose it was unlikely that he’d listen to you about Stiles.”

“Highly unlikely,” Peter concurred. “The Tyson deal will fall apart if Derek dumps Braeden. The Tysons are old and traditional and they won’t take a failed engagement as anything less than a serious insult.” Peter settled into the window seat closest to Talia’s chair. Talia turned her gaze to her son, whose face in sleep was relaxed and guileless. 

“He really thinks he could fall in love with Stiles,” she told Peter with a sigh he interpreted as annoyance. 

“Bullshit,” Peter said. “Braeden’s seen the closest thing to love I’ve ever known Derek to feel. I thought he’d finally gotten his life together. He actually graduated from college. I saw him in the halls of the Hale building downtown last week—sober and not just on his way to the test kitchen.” 

Peter rubbed the bridge of his nose, heaving his own sigh. 

“You need to take care of this, Peter,” Talia ordered.

“He’s your son,” muttered Peter.

“It’s _your company_ now,” she shot back. 

“Derek will just sneak around if I warn him away from Stiles,” said Peter, working through the dilemma as he spoke. 

“Can you pay him off?” Talia asked, then shook her head. “Of course not. He’s Noah Stilinski’s son. He’d be insulted, his father would be livid…what a mess.”

“What Derek needs is for Stiles to be involved with someone else. Just long enough for Derek to marry Braeden and the whole situation to resolve itself happily.”

Talia raised her eyebrows at the word _happily_ , but gave a slow nod. 

“That would be the most convenient outcome,” she agreed. “What are you plotting?”

“Nothing very terrible,” said Peter. “Stiles won’t come out of it too badly. He’s old enough to weather a little heartache. He’ll be better off and so will Derek.”

“I can’t say this is your best plan,” said Talia as she recognized the path Peter’s mind was taking. “But Hale H&H will be in real trouble if you don’t secure this deal with Tyson. Don’t toy with Stiles. Just…redirect him. I can’t imagine he knows Derek very well; it shouldn’t be that difficult. And I’ll try to get Braeden back early. Maybe if Derek sees her right in front of him it will remind him why he wants to marry her.” 

“I’ll deal with Stiles. You deal with Derek.”

“And the company will be better for it,” Talia said with satisfaction.

“Well, thank god for that. The company comes first, after all.” Peter wasn’t sure even as he said if he was serious or not. 

Talia gave him a sharp look. “Do you regret taking the reins?” 

“Of course not.” Peter made a dismissive noise. “It’s been what I’ve wanted since I was ten. I’ve spent my whole life working up to run H&H. You know that.”

“It couldn’t be in more competent hands,” Talia said. “Except mine, of course.” She smiled and Peter forced a smile in return.

“Of course,” he said. He rose from his seat and walked to the doorway. “I may need to be out of the office for a few days as I sort this out.”

“Take the time you need. As long as it doesn’t interfere with the Tyson deal. If I need to step in to help with day-to-day operations, you can always call me.”

“Thank you, Talia, but I have a handle on my company,” said Peter. He left the room and walked down the hall to his own suite, where everything was in its place, as usual. Peter went through his sitting room into the bedroom. The bed was flawlessly made, the flowers fresh on the table, the furniture polished and the floor waxed. It should have been relaxing, but it felt impersonal. Peter went into the bathroom to follow his long-established evening routine. As he let his sonic toothbrush run for its programmed two point five minutes, his thoughts drifted back to Stiles’s ridiculous werewolf mystery. 

What would be it be like, he wondered, to allow your animal side, your instincts, to come out in such a visceral way? Over the years, Peter had focused on doing whatever he had to do to become the most powerful person at Hale H&H. He was on his way to making it the top home-goods company in the world, and that didn’t come with temper tantrums and lack of discipline. 

Peter looked at himself in the mirror as he rinsed his mouth out and thought about the flush on Stiles’s cheeks after he’d been kissed. Even as a boy, Stiles hadn’t followed a predictable path. Eighteen and heartbroken and he’d still had the spine to lecture Peter on the importance of pursuing his passion. Well, Peter had done that, too, hadn’t he? He was the undisputed head of his family’s company at last—Talia had accepted his ascendancy, and Peter had achieved what he’d always wanted. Stiles was merely a small bump in the road to Peter’s supremacy. 

**CHAPTER 6**

Stiles’s dad arrived back in Beacon Hills late the evening of Talia’s party. When Stiles burst through the door after being kissed—kissed!—by Peter Hale, Noah looked his son over then simply folded him up into a hug, said he was happy to see him again, and wished him a good night of sleep. Exhausted, emotional, and bewildered by the day’s events, Stiles hugged him back and went straight to bed. 

In the morning, Stiles was still off-balance. He joined his father for breakfast and listened absently as Noah updated him on Hale Estate news. There was a new gardener. The chauffeur had retired to his home country of England. 

Stiles made appropriate noises at all the right places while slowly pulverizing his toast. He’d woken to texts from Lydia, Isaac, and Scott, all of whom wanted to know how the evening had gone. Faced with trying to explain it—Derek injured in a freak wine-glass mishap, Peter Hale initiating some kind of weird surrogate seduction, the general surreality of being a guest at a Hale party—Stiles gave up and left the messages unanswered. 

“What’s Peter been like? As a boss, I mean?” Stiles asked abruptly, interrupting Noah in mid-sentence. Noah closed his mouth and stared at Stiles for a long moment.

“Perfectly fair,” he said. “Even-handed, even-tempered. A little cold. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Stiles evaded. “What was he like as a kid? Peter? I only remember…I thought he was pretty terrifying for the longest time.”

“I didn’t know him when he was a child,” said Noah, considering Stiles’s face while he answered. “I knew of him, the way everyone knows of the Hales in Beacon Hills. By the time I started working for Talia, Peter was at school. He was still Talia’s second-in-command then, even as a teenager, even when it wasn’t official. Everyone knew—Peter knew, I’m sure—that he would end up running the business. He’s very…focused.” 

“Huh.” Stiles moved on to crumbling a slice of crispy bacon. 

“If you’re not going to eat that, kid, hand it over,” Noah ordered.

“No way! I remember what the doctor said, even if you don’t. This bacon isn’t going anywhere near you.” Stiles stuffed the still-intact part of the piece in his own mouth.

“I’ve missed you,” said Noah. 

“Yeah, I missed you, too, Dad.” Stiles swallowed the bacon and smiled at his father. “I’m sorry I’m kind of off this morning. Long night.”

“You went to the party, I gather?”

“Derek invited me.” 

“Oh?” Noah busied himself clearing away the dishes. Stiles wasn’t fooled. 

“I just wanted some closure,” he said, taking the dishes from Noah and putting them in the dishwasher. “It didn’t work anyway. Derek got hurt.”

“I heard.” Noah sat down again with a fresh cup of coffee. 

“So I’m going to stop by today and see if he’s okay.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s no big deal,” Stiles insisted. 

“I didn’t say it was.” Noah sipped his coffee.

“I can hear you thinking. I know Derek’s…taken, or whatever.”

“Okay.”

“Well. I’ll probably take a shower and then head over to the main house.”

“Stiles.” Noah looked up from his coffee, face serious. 

“Yeah, Dad?” Stiles bit his lip and waited for his father to say something discouraging. 

“Just be careful. For your own sake, all right?”

“I will.” Stiles paused at the entryway to the kitchen. “Thanks.” 

After his shower, Stiles dithered in front of his closet, finally settling on Lydia-approved jeans and a lightweight, linen button-down shirt that he donned knowing it would be unforgivably wrinkly by the end of the day. Since he was seeing Derek in the morning, that didn’t matter. 

Stiles clattered down the apartment’s exterior steps, past the wide garage doors, and over the still-dewy lawn to the intimidatingly large estate that housed the Hale family proper. Sunlight caught on the dripping blades of grass, reminding Stiles of the way champagne had sparkled under moonlight the night before. The champagne he’d had with _Derek_ , he told himself, not the champagne he’d had in the conservatory. With the other Hale. 

The kitchen door was open to the morning air, but Stiles went in through a side entrance; he wasn’t up to chatting with the staff, he just wanted to see for himself that Derek was okay. And maybe try some closure-flirting? 

Stiles ascended the wide, sweeping staircase and crept down the ornately patterned carpet runner toward Derek’s bedroom. He was so busy thinking of what he would say to Derek that he nearly ran into Peter coming from the opposite direction. 

“Good morning, Stiles,” said Peter, looking urbane and well-rested. 

“I’m here to see Derek,” Stiles told him, then added, “I mean…good morning.” 

“I was about to check on Derek, as well,” Peter replied. “Why don’t we go in together?” He didn’t give Stiles time to protest, just swept him along through Derek’s doorway and into Derek’s bedroom. Derek himself lay near-insensate on the bed, a loose smile on his face.

“‘Ullo, Stiles!” Derek slurred. “Whatcha doin’ here?”

“Derek, I’m so sorry you got hurt,” Stiles said, hurrying over to Derek’s bedside and perching on the edge. He hesitantly laid his hand over Derek’s and flushed when Derek gripped him back fervently with a look so appreciative it was nearly a leer. 

“Missed our date,” said Derek. 

“We can see each other again,” said Stiles. “I’ll be around.”

“‘M glad you came back, Shti— Stiles,” Derek mumbled. “I like you.”

“I like you, too,” said Stiles, swallowing over a lump in his throat. “I like you, too, Derek.” 

“Tired,” Derek announced, and closed his eyes. 

“Is he all right?” Stiles turned his face up to Peter for reassurance.

“It’s just the pain meds. He’ll be a little loopy for a while, but the doctor said not to worry.” Peter urged Stiles off the bed and out of the room. “Let’s let him get some rest, hm? I’m sure he was happy you stopped by.” 

They walked down the stairs in what Stiles felt was a very awkward silence. At the bottom of the steps, Stiles started to head toward the back of the house when Peter spoke up. 

“I know last night might have been a little odd,” he said, and Stiles paused, turning around to look at Peter and realizing for the first time that Peter was dressed much more casually than usual. “What you said got me thinking, though.”

“Oh?” said Stiles, cautious. 

“I like your sense of humor. I like the direction your thoughts take. I’ve been looking over our agency’s ideas for the flagship store’s display windows in the fall and I haven’t liked any of them much. Now I’m starting to think I might want something written on them, to go with a new line of bakeware. It’s innovative stuff. I’m considering words from a poem, maybe, or something…well, something clever.”

“Okay. Why are you telling me?” 

“I’d like to get your take on it, Stiles. You’re bright, and I know Stanford turns out only the best graduates”—Peter paused to wink at Stiles, which was equal parts disconcerting and endearing—“and, most importantly, you’re someone who’s pursuing the art of words as your vocation. What do you think? Would you like to join me on a tour of the flagship store today? Have you ever been there? You could get a feel for the space I’m talking about.”

“Oh…uh.” Stiles wasn’t sure if he should be thinking of an excuse not to go. It sounded kind of fun. A day in San Francisco at the Hale House & Home flagship store, maybe lunch somewhere nice. His other alternative was facing his friends and trying to find a good way to explain the disaster of the night before. Even though he was contemplating an entire day spent in that very disaster’s company.

“The weather’s supposed to be beautiful today. Maybe we could get some lunch while we’re there,” suggested Peter, echoing Stiles’s own thoughts. 

_Well, why not?_ Stiles thought.

“Yes,” said Stiles before he could change his mind. “Yes, I’d like to go. Thank you, Peter.” 

“Thank you,” said Peter. “I appreciate the opportunity to get a fresh set of eyes on the project.” He gestured for Stiles to walk with him to the front of the house. “We’ll take the helicopter, if you don’t object.”

“To a helicopter? Of course not,” said Stiles, thrilled and hoping he didn’t sound like an eight-year-old kid at the prospect. “Where do you land?”

“The Hales own the whole building the store is in; there’s a landing pad on the roof.” Peter ushered Stiles out to the vast front lawn to wait for the pilot. “There are protests against it periodically, but so far I’ve prevailed.” 

He kept Stiles engaged in a quick-moving, unexpectedly entertaining conversation while they waited, not once bringing up the stock market, the impending Tyson silicone deal, or Derek. Stiles found himself laughing more than he could remember doing even around his friends. There was something so appealing about Peter’s dry, acerbic sense of humor. Stiles was never entirely sure if Peter was exaggerating his own sense of self-importance for comic effect, or if he genuinely valued himself that highly. 

The ride to San Francisco was exhilarating. Stiles’s stomach lurched and swooped as they took off, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the spectacular aerial views of the city on their approach. When they landed and the helicopter had flown away, depositing them neatly on the roof of a tall building in a bustling shopping district, Stiles watched it grow smaller and smaller in the sky. 

“That was amazing,” he told Peter, impulsively taking the other man’s hand and squeezing it in excitement. “Thank you.”

“I’m beginning to worry the store itself will be something of a let-down,” Peter replied, eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled. He escorted Stiles down to the elevator, which they rode to the ground floor. The retail space took up the first three levels, with the rest devoted to offices and what Peter had described as a well-equipped test kitchen. In the building’s center was a stained-glass atrium facing the sky that cast colorful squares of light onto the marble flooring. Stiles tipped his head to look up and up at the patterned glass many stories above them. 

When he looked back at Peter, the other man was gazing at him with what Stiles thought might be fondness. Stiles glanced away, feeling shy suddenly. There was no shortage of interesting things to give his attention, though, and he leaned over to examine a circular blade with a hollow tube attached, a handle affixed to the top. 

“What’s this?” he asked Peter. 

“It cores pineapples and makes slices,” said Peter. Stiles drifted farther into the kitchen-gadget section, Peter alternately answering his questions and pointing out various instruments Stiles had never used. 

“I thought I was at least competent in the kitchen, but I’m starting to think I’m undereducated,” Stiles said at one point, holding an immersion blender up with a frown. 

“You don’t need a specific tool for every task,” Peter said. “Although it makes my job a lot easier if you think so.” 

“So this french-fry cutter is a scam?” Stiles raised his eyebrows.

“For the french-fry devotee, it’s irreplaceable,” Peter informed him. “For the average family cook…it might be lower on the list of kitchen necessities.” 

“Is this the biggest H&H store in the world?” Stiles asked. 

“Yes. The first and the largest still,” answered Peter. “Although our Midtown location in Manhattan is pretty damn close in terms of square footage.” 

“Oh, New York,” sighed Stiles, absently running his fingers over a damask-patterned tablecloth. He spotted the price tag and winced, removing his hand. 

“Have you ever been there?”

“No, just thought about it. My mom was from New York. She told me lots of stories before she died.” Stiles stared at a display of reflective copper braising pans without really seeing them. “I don’t know, I guess I probably idealized it. When I was really little, I thought it was so neat that New York was the home of Batman—we all know Gotham was initially supposed to be New York, right? Then, when I got older and knew I wanted to write, it was like…New York: the center of everything literary in the country. Where every writer should aspire to be. Walt Whitman, J.D. Salinger, Edith Wharton. Dorothy fucking Parker and the Algonquin. I mean, I’m old enough now to recognize how unrealistic all that kid stuff was. But New York to me still feels like the dream location.” 

Peter didn’t say anything, just nodded and put his hand on Stiles’s lower back as they went up a level to the cooking demonstration area. Peter’s hand was broad and warm and steady. Stiles didn’t say anything, either, when Peter left it there once they’d stopped walking. 

The woman working at the showcase station was making lemon curd, explaining the steps she was taking in a pleasant patter to the small crowd gathered around the cooktop. Stiles was content to watch her whisk the thick, beautifully yellow dessert. Periodically, the hand Peter had at Stiles’s back twitched, as though he wanted to participate in the cooking process. But he said nothing, and they both took small, plastic sample cups of the curd when it had cooled enough to eat. 

Stiles nearly moaned when he tasted the bright, floral, lemon flavor. He chased the last of the tart-sweet substance with his tongue, spoon abandoned, unwilling to let any of it go to waste. Peter finished about three-quarters of his sample then dropped the cup and spoon into the trash. 

“Not bad,” he judged. “Too much cornstarch, perhaps.” 

“What? It’s delicious,” Stiles protested, watching sadly as Peter’s cup tumbled into the waste receptacle. Stiles tossed his own trash away and asked Peter, “Do you have any say in what those recipe cards say?” He gestured toward the display of cards next to the cooktop. 

“If I tested every recipe we publish, it would be a level of micromanaging no sane executive would undertake.” 

“But you like cooking,” said Stiles. 

“My job is to run a company, Stiles, not play chef.” 

“Have you ever thought about writing a cookbook?”

“When would I have the time? And besides, the market is saturated.” Peter dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. 

“What do you do for fun?” asked Stiles, coming to a halt. Peter stopped, too, facing Stiles with a small shrug. 

“I travel, I suppose. I have residences in London and Paris,” said Peter. “Also New York.” He paused, his voice thoughtful and slow as he went on. “Maybe you’re right, though. It has been a while since I did anything that wasn’t at least tangentially related to the job. Would you—” Peter broke off, then shook his head. 

“What?” prompted Stiles. “I am desperate to hear about what workaholic Peter Hale is considering for a break. Would I…tour your Midtown location? Attend a European staff meeting?” 

“It’s a little crazy,” Peter demurred. 

“Come on, Peter. You can’t leave it like that.”

“There’s a cooking series I’ve wanted to take for years. In New York—it’s run by a famously perfectionist chef. She teaches out of her home and only takes three students per session. I’d never seriously considered it before but… Well, maybe hearing you talk about the romance of New York affected me more than I thought. You could come with me. Take in the city, soak up the literary ambiance.” 

“I don’t know what to say,” replied Stiles, turning the idea over in his head. It was not at all what he’d expected from Peter. He’d thought a night at the symphony, maybe, or a ludicrously extravagant dinner at a restaurant booked up for months. “When would we leave?” 

“There’s a new series of classes starting in a couple of days,” said Peter. 

“That’s so soon,” said Stiles, surprised. “And…specific.” 

“I keep track of the chef’s offerings.”

“I can’t leave Derek,” Stiles said. 

“No, of course not. Forget it—one of my few flights of fancy. It was silly.” Peter straightened and offered his arm to Stiles. “Shall we get lunch? I know a spot a few blocks away that hasn’t yet been overrun by rabid foodies.” 

“It wasn’t silly,” said Stiles. “I just…maybe it was kind of quick. But I appreciate you thinking of me. I haven’t been home long, and I didn’t expect to reconnect with Derek, and—”

“No, no, you’re right. Absolutely.” Peter pushed open the front doors of the H&H store and escorted Stiles out into the sunlight. “Derek’s a very lucky man.”

“I thought you’d be more upset about the idea of Derek and-and me,” said Stiles, walking closely enough to Peter that their shoulders brushed. There was a comforting, protective feeling he got being in Peter’s proximity. “The deal with Tyson. My friend Lydia told me about the bakeware stuff. I guess you were probably happy that Derek and Braeden Tyson hit it off.”

“It did make things easier,” Peter admitted. “But I want Derek to be happy. If you are the person who makes him happy, who am I to stand in the way? All the same—” Peter turned his head to give Stiles a wry smile. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little envious.” 

“Of _Derek_?” Stiles couldn’t help dropping his jaw briefly in astonishment. “Because of _me_?” 

“You undervalue yourself,” Peter murmured to him, close enough for Stiles to inhale his clean, citrusy scent. 

“Thank you?” Stiles gave a choked half-laugh and felt his cheeks turn red. 

**CHAPTER 7**

The lunch spot Peter took them was tucked between two wider buildings on a quiet side street. The interior was worn but welcoming, with faded, blue-patterned wallpaper and a scuffed tile floor. The tables were dark wood and mostly full, although Peter, of course, managed to secure them a low-traffic two-top near the back of the main room. 

They dined on rice and lamb dolmathakia, hot and savory avgolemono soup, youvetsi covered with a pale, sharp cheese, and souvlaki grilled perfectly, with crisp edges and a succulent interior. The meal finished with gloriously sticky baklava, golden honey dripping from the multitude of layered pastry. Stiles savored the dessert, licking the last of the honey from his fingers and closing his eyes in bliss. He opened them to find Peter’s gaze fixed on his mouth. 

“Uh, it’s really good,” Stiles said. 

“Missed some,” Peter said huskily, brushing his thumb against the corner of Stiles’s mouth. Stiles tasted the salt of Peter’s skin and the spices of the lamb and the sweet, warm flavor of honey. 

“Thanks.” Stiles drew back and busied himself with draining the remainder of his water. Peter gestured for the check and, before he could send the waiter back with payment, Stiles fished out his wallet and handed over a credit card, sending Peter a stern look. 

“Let me get this,” Stiles said. “You gave me a helicopter ride, remember? It’s worth a few dolmas and some baklava at the very least.”

“All right.” Peter smiled his thanks and sat back, tucking his money clip back into his jacket pocket. 

“So…” Stiles fiddled with his napkin as they waited for the waiter to return. “Do you have to get back to work?”

“This _is_ work,” said Peter. “I’m soliciting the ideas of a brilliant writer for company ad copy, essentially.”

“Ha.” Stiles smiled down at the table, Peter’s complimentary words giving him a pleasant glow even though he knew they were meant in jest. “There’s a place I’ve been a couple of times in the city that I think you might like. Do you have time today? I figured, as long as we’re nearby…”

Peter’s face showed surprise then curiosity. “Do I get any hints as to what this mysterious outing might be?” 

“Nah. But we should probably take a cab. It’s over by Bernal Heights.” 

Stiles could see Peter trying to work out what destination Stiles had in mind, but Bernal Heights wasn’t a huge tourist attraction. Stiles grinned in anticipation as he paid the bill and led Peter out of the restaurant and back onto the street. 

They called for a ride share and Stiles angled his phone so Peter couldn’t see him put in the destination. The drive was short, and in about fifteen minutes, they were standing outside a park. 

“I know Bernal Heights has some good views,” Peter began. 

“Come on,” urged Stiles, taking Peter’s hand without thinking about it. Peter let him, matching his strides until Stiles halted before a pile of cardboard in rough squares. Peter raised his eyebrows, but took the piece Stiles held out to him. 

They walked a short distance through a neighborhood park and playground, then stopped in front of a steep, metal slide that followed the natural descent of the land. Peter hesitated. 

“It’s a slide,” he said. 

“Yeah,” agreed Stiles. “Generally you sit down to use them.” He put his cardboard piece at the top of the slide and lowered himself onto it. “The cardboard makes it more fun.” 

Peter stood there for a few more minutes before Stiles made an impatient noise and poked him in the leg. 

“Get down here, have some fun,” Stiles demanded. “When was the last time you were on a slide?”

“I’m fairly certain I was still wearing corduroy overalls at the time,” said Peter. 

“Well.” Stiles gestured at the sweep of metal curving before them. “Have at it!” Stiles pushed himself down the slide with a whoop, accelerating with stomach-dropping speed, an unstoppable smile across his face. He reached the bottom of the slide and leapt to his feet, turning to see Peter start down the slide behind him. 

Peter’s face quickly went from resigned to astonished to delighted. He let out a bellow halfway down, his hair escaping its carefully sculpted lines as the wind rushed past him. At the bottom, Peter flew off the edge of the slide and landed ass-first on the ground. He leaned over his bent knees, his shoulders shaking. 

“Holy shit,” Stiles muttered, rushing over. “Are you okay? Did you break your tailbone? Maybe this was a bad—”

Peter raised his face; he was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes. With his dark hair falling in haphazard waves across his forehead and his undignified wheezes of mirth, Peter was far from his usual icy persona. 

“Did you…did you like it? You liked it, right?” Stiles sat down next to him and bumped him companionably on the shoulder. “It’s a rush, huh?”

“That was,” Peter began, wiping his eyes, “the most ridiculous, amazing thing I’ve done in years.” 

“Yeah?” Stiles grinned.

“Let’s go again,” Peter decided, standing. Stiles scrambled up after him. “I’ll race you.” Peter took off back up the hill without waiting for Stiles, and Stiles dashed after him, tripping over his own feet.

“Not fair!” Stiles shouted after him. “You got a head start!”

“Sorry,” called Peter, entirely unapologetic. He situated the cardboard and flew down the slide again, Stiles hot behind him. 

Stiles lost count of the number of times they went down the slides—Peter didn’t seem to get tired of the sensation, and Stiles had spent hours at the park in the past. Both sported a few new bruises and tired, happy smiles when they called it quits at the park. The afternoon shadows were lengthening as they returned their cardboard pieces to the pile and headed back on the street. 

“There’s a place I’d like to show you, too,” said Peter, before Stiles could figure out if he wanted to prolong the day with Peter. 

“Okay,” said Stiles easily. “But do you mind if we eat first? I think I burned about a thousand calories chasing you on the hill.”

“How do you feel about porchetta?” Peter asked. 

“Good,” said Stiles. “But if you’re thinking of the sandwiches down at the Ferry building, you should know there’s no way we’re going to get them today.”

“Hm,” replied Peter, tapping on his phone. Stiles watched him curiously.

“Are you working some kind of rich-person magic?” he asked.

“I’m asking for a favor from a friend,” said Peter. He spent another couple of minutes making mysterious arrangements. Stiles pulled out his own phone and tried to think of a way to ask his dad to give him an update on Derek without sounding like he was desperate. He hadn’t come up with anything non-pathetic sounding when Peter put his phone away and cleared his throat. 

“Our ride should be here shortly,” he announced. Stiles stuck his phone in his pocket and gave Peter an expectant look. 

“And is that all the information I get?”

“For now,” said Peter. 

“You know, you’re not the way I thought you’d be,” said Stiles, tilting his head and considering Peter. He’d tried to tame his hair again, but it was looser than usual, making him appear younger and less serious. Over the course of the sliding, Peter’s shirt had come untucked, and he’d tied his jacket around his waist. Stiles, whose own shirt was deeply wrinkled and probably grass-stained, as well, enjoyed the slightly rumpled Peter in front of him. 

“Oh?” Peter prompted when Stiles fell quiet. “How did you think I’d be?”

“I don’t know.” Stiles shrugged. He struggled to find a way to say intimidating and no fun without actually saying it, but a ride-share car pulled up at that moment, and he was saved having to express the idea to Peter. 

As Stiles had on the ride to the slides, Peter kept their destination a secret. The drive wasn’t too long, though, and soon they were stepping out of the car and onto the street near Crissy Field. 

“Hang on a couple of minutes here,” said Peter, using his phone again. Stiles nodded and turned his attention to the way the Golden Gate Bridge just beyond them glowed in the late-afternoon sun. The stream of cars passing to and fro over its span glinted in the light, and Stiles shielded his eyes as he turned his gaze to the water that lay beyond the parking lot and grass. 

Peter joined him, shading his own eyes as they both looked out beyond the city. 

“Mr. Hale?” someone called from the street. Peter turned and greeted a woman hurrying up the sidewalk, a heavy, grease-spotted bag in hand. He gave her something Stiles suspected was quite a lot of cash and she turned over the bag. Peter brought it back over to Stiles with a triumphant face. 

“Let me guess: the famous porchetta, attained on a weekday, delivered directly to your hands,” Stiles said. Peter shrugged, failing to look modest. 

“I know a lot of people in town,” he replied. “Let’s take a little walk and eat this closer to the shore.”

“Oh, is that our secret goal? The shore?”

“You’ll see,” said Peter. He led Stiles through a parking lot and out onto a small spit of land, waves rushing in to fling white foam at the earth. The sound was endless and soothing, and Stiles walked closer to Peter, close enough to feel the heat of his body. 

They stopped when they reached a tiered, patio-like area that featured large pipes poking out of the ground at various points. Stiles heard something other than the crashing water and peered over the edge of the rough patio down to the sea. “What is that?” he asked, watching as the waves disappeared into hollows at various points on either side of the shifting water level. 

“The Wave Organ,” Peter told him, setting up the contents of the bag on a flat area. “It will provide our dinner music this evening.” 

Stiles wandered back over to Peter and dropped onto the ground next to one of the piles of food. There was a sandwich of garlicky pork and sharp arugula, with hints of lemon and fennel; a pile of crispy fried potatoes; and a container of roasted vegetables. Peter lastly produced a mound of napkins and two bottles of still-cold water.

Stiles tucked into his sandwich happily, listening to the mournful, erratic sounds of the organ. “I’ve never heard of this place,” he said when the sandwich was about half gone. “It’s like living inside a giant shell.”

“It’s a relic of the Eighties,” Peter told him. “One of the Exploratorium’s artists in residence built it. We came here when I was a child. You can only hear the sounds at high tide, although it’s interesting to see the structure exposed at low tide.” He speared a piece of roast squash and ate it as the water noises echoed up to them. 

“Did you always want to run Hale H&H? Even when you were a kid coming here to listen to the Wave Organ?” Stiles picked at the fries, watching Peter.

“Always,” said Peter, although his mouth was turned down. 

“That’s a big ambition for a little kid,” remarked Stiles.

“I don’t think a lack of ambition is one of my faults,” replied Peter, his frown transforming into a smirk. 

“Did you want to run the company because you like to cook?” Stiles persisted. 

“I don’t see how they’re related.”

“Well…it is a housewares company?” 

“I have an MBA and years of experience in management,” said Peter. “I’ve only ever cooked or baked as a hobby. It helps to be knowledgeable about your market. It’s not—” He broke off, returning to the frown. 

“It’s not…what?” asked Stiles. “It’s not your passion?”

Peter scoffed, stabbing the vegetables with sharp, precise movements. 

“Following a passion isn’t a reliable path to wealth or power or success,” he said after a while. 

“Yeah,” agreed Stiles. “I may never amount to much as a mystery writer. But I want to give it a shot.”

“I have every confidence in you,” said Peter, and any uncertainty that might have been in his face was erased; he was back to the charming, unruffled Peter Hale persona. Stiles found he missed the Peter who looked like maybe he didn’t have all the answers. It was part of why Stiles liked Derek so much—Derek pursued his passions with so much zeal, and would readily admit he had found something new to be excited about. Derek was— Stiles realized he hadn’t thought about Derek since the slide park. 

“I wonder how Derek’s doing,” he said, pulling out his phone on the off chance Noah had texted him with an update. It was a very remote possibility, but Stiles felt compelled to check. 

“We can go back to the house,” Peter offered. “If he’s up you could visit him.” 

Stiles hesitated as the organ whistled dolefully and waves slapped against the rocks. 

“The sun will set in an hour or so anyway,” Peter said, and wrapped up the food remains. Stiles reluctantly got to his feet, surprised at how much he wanted to keep the day going. 

“Thank you,” he said. “This was…” Words failed him and Stiles turned a helpless smile at Peter. “Good. It was a really good day.” 

“I’ll be in touch about the store windows,” Peter said.

“Oh! Oh, yeah, the store.” Stiles nodded. “I’ll try to come up with some ideas. What’s the product line, again? I don’t know if we ever got around to talking about it.”

Peter put the last bits of their dinner in a trash can and brushed his hands together a few times. 

“It’s not public yet, but I can trust you. The deal my company is in talks over with Tyson will see H&H stores as the exclusive distributor of a new kind of silicone-like bakeware. It’s futuristic and innovative and I think our customers will be very pleased. It maintains its shape much better than current silicone bakeware, and it doesn’t have the same issues with degradation and discoloration.”

“The Tyson deal,” echoed Stiles, feeling guilty. “Will it—uh, does Derek have anything to do with that? It sounds like a big thing for your company. Does it matter if Derek and…I mean, not that Derek and I are…” Stiles trailed off awkwardly. 

“I don’t know what you and Derek feel for each other,” said Peter in a neutral voice. “Of course I hope that nothing will upset the Tyson situation, but naturally Derek’s happiness and yours should come first.” 

“Yeah. Naturally.” Stiles bit his lip. 

“I’ve called for a car,” Peter added, moving on. “It should be here momentarily.” 

“Thanks,” said Stiles. “You don’t have to take care of all the cabs, though. I can use my account—”

“No, you’ve misunderstood,” Peter interrupted. “I’ve called for one of my cars.”

With impeccable timing, one of Peter’s many terrifyingly competent employees pulled up to the curb in front of Peter and Stiles in a 1960s-era Shelby Cobra. Stiles, whose interest in cars was limited to the Jeep he’d inherited from his mom, only registered Peter’s vehicle as vintage and expensive. 

“Mr. Hale,” said the driver, hopping out and handing Peter the keys. 

“Thank you,” Peter replied. 

“How will he get home?” Stiles asked in an undertone as Peter opened the passenger-side door for him.

“He’ll call a cab on the company account,” Peter said. He walked around the car and got into the driver’s seat. Stiles unobtrusively stroked the well-maintained, expertly conditioned leather seats. Peter pulled smoothly into traffic and headed north for the bridge. 

They were speeding across the red-gold span shortly after, the bridge’s cables twisting overhead, forming long lines across the darkening sky. 

“Did you know mountain biking was basically invented up here in Marin County?” Stiles asked, breaking the silence. Peter shot him a small grin.

“I did, actually. You’re full of unexpected facts.”

Stiles wasn’t sure if he should feel self-conscious or not. “It’s the ADHD—I can focus really intensely on something I’m interested in, and there was a while when I thought I wanted to try out extreme sports. I read everything I could find.”

“So do you mountain bike?”

“Uh, no. Turns out while my brain thought it sounded awesome, my body wasn’t so coordinated.” Stiles shrugged. 

“Mountain biking can be fun,” said Peter. “My interest was short-lived, though.”

“I’ll bet you were still good at it,” muttered Stiles, a little envious. “I’ll bet you’re good at everything you try.”

Peter made a thoughtful noise. “You’d be surprised,” he murmured, but didn’t add anything more. Stiles puzzled over the comment.

“Like what?” he prompted. 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Peter gave a tight shrug and an unconvincing chuckle. “Relationships. I suppose. Romance. It’s a challenge to manage a working relationship with an entire company and still find time for…love.” It sounded like Peter forced the last word out. 

“Huh.” Stiles wasn’t sure what to say to that. “I guess maybe I’ve heard rumors.”

“About my love life?” Peter shot him a curious look.

“Uh, sort of. Like…your lack of a love life?” Stiles stared out the windshield and wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

“Ah,” said Peter. “And what do these rumors say?”

“Peter Hale, world’s only living heart donor,” Stiles said. “You know…stuff like that.”

“I see.” Peter steered the car up into the headlands. Stiles felt guilty about the heavy silence and tried to think of something tactful to say. Nothing came to mind. 

“Have you ever driven one of these cars?” Peter asked after a bit. He sounded perfectly normal and not at all hurt or irritated. Stiles shook his head. “Want to try it out?” 

Peter raised his eyebrows. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Can you drive a stick shift?”

“Yeah,” said Stiles, starting to get excited at the prospect of operating Peter’s ridiculously expensive muscle car. 

“Then I’m sure.” Peter pulled off at the next exit and gestured for Stiles to switch places with him. Stiles got into the driver’s seat tentatively. He waited for Peter to put his seatbelt on then cautiously let out the clutch and eased onto the gas. The car took off and Stiles gripped the wheel, nervous and thrilled at the same time. He merged back into traffic on the 101, keeping the car steady just at the speed limit. 

“You can be more adventurous,” said Peter, an amused note in his voice. 

“Don’t want to hurt your car,” replied Stiles, not relaxing his fingers. 

“Take the next exit,” Peter advised, and Stiles obeyed, guiding the car to the right and out into the hills. The sun settled lower in the sky and Stiles followed Peter’s occasional directions, winding them through neatly kept towns and widely spaced farms. They passed through a forest where pine trees towered over the road, forming a fragrant, dark-green canopy. The air was cool and damp and Stiles couldn’t get enough of it. The pavement swooped around curves and through pockets of fog. Stiles misjudged a turn by a few degrees and the car crossed briefly into the other lane before he brought it back into line. He threw an anxious glance at Peter. 

“Don’t worry about it,” said Peter, not looking upset. He leaned over slightly, warming Stiles’s shoulder. “Keep your eyes just a little higher and shift your grip down a bit.” 

Peter’s dry, steady hands nudged Stiles’s fingers farther down onto the steering wheel. Stiles fixed his gaze farther ahead and immediately noticed a greater feeling of control and stability in handling the car. 

“Thanks,” said Stiles, trying hard not to notice the other things that had changed, like the goosebumps that had risen when Peter spoke next to his ear. Stiles did his best to focus on the road—and the car was a joy to drive, demanding most of his attention—but he cut the trip shorter than he might have under other circumstances and pulled over at a high point overlooking a valley. 

“Tired of driving?” Peter asked.

“A little, maybe,” said Stiles. “This looked like a nice view, though.”

There was a cluster of houses below them; lights sprang up here and there as dusk deepened and evening fell. Neither Peter nor Stiles spoke as they watched the bright spots form earth-bound constellations, like a patch of star-filled sky had fallen to the ground. 

Peter shifted in his seat, ending up close enough that Stiles only had to feign a stretch to bring their shoulders together. Peter’s shoulder was very solid. Heart thudding, Stiles slowly lowered his head to rest against that solid shoulder. His thoughts were frantic and he couldn’t quite believe he was initiating such familiar contact, but the urge was irresistible. Peter felt like understanding and safety, even if he wasn’t. Stiles waited for Peter to move away or push Stiles back, but he didn’t. Instead, they sat there while Stiles relaxed his muscles, gazing out into the growing darkness as the moon rose. 

“This seems like a good night for your werewolves,” Peter remarked quietly. “Full moon.”

“Yeah.” Stiles smiled. “You remember what my book’s about, huh?”

“Of course,” said Peter. “I expect a signed copy when it’s published.” 

“Sure,” said Stiles. “You’ll get a first edition no problem.” 

Peter angled himself to get a hand under Stiles’s head and tilt it so they were face to face. Stiles hardly breathed, unable to decide if he wanted to stare at Peter’s eyes or his mouth. Peter cupped the back of Stiles’s skull in a large palm and carefully lowered his own head. If Stiles had thought his heart was beating quickly before, it was nothing to the current moment, when he thought he might pass out from anticipation. But Peter did not, as Stiles had both expected and feared, bring their lips together. Instead, Peter touched his forehead to Stiles’s and stroked once down his back. 

“We should get back,” he murmured, and Stiles gave a wet-sounding, hitched intake of air in response. He stumbled out of the car to let Peter take the driving duties back, allowing the coolness of the night to drain the red from his cheeks and steady his breathing. When he got back into the car, Stiles looked almost calm. He was able to make occasional but steady conversation with Peter all the way back to the Hale Estate. 

Although his mouth continued to emit comments about literature and music and what kinds of cars he’d driven in the past, his brain was a scattered disaster area. Had he wanted Peter Hale to kiss him? What about Derek? Was Peter even interested in Stiles? Was this all a strange form of crazy brought on by proximity and good food and moonlight? 

Stiles didn’t have any answers by the time Peter parked outside the Hale garage, and a hard look at Peter didn’t yield any further conclusions. Peter reached out to brush his hand against Stiles’s, a fond smile hovering around his mouth without actually settling there. 

“I had a good day, Stiles. One of the best I can remember. Thank you.” Peter, incredibly, brought Stiles’s hand up and brushed his lips against it.

“Um.” Stiles blinked. The skin that had felt Peter’s mouth tingled. “Me, too. Thank you.” 

“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Don’t you…have work?” Stiles let Peter hold onto his hand, feeling dazed. 

“We could have dinner,” Peter suggested. Stiles opened his mouth, unsure what was going to come out, but knowing he had to respond. Before he could, a tall figure appeared at the edge of the headlights’ glow, walking toward them unsteadily. 

“Derek!” Stiles cried, fumbling with the door handle until he got it open. He hurried out of the car and over to Derek’s side, where he urged the other man to lean against him. “Should you be out of bed? Why are you only using one crutch?” 

“Stiles,” said Derek warmly, slinging an arm around Stiles’s waist. “I thought you’d be around earlier.” 

“I’m so sorry,” said Stiles, guilt-stricken. 

“He was doing some work for me,” Peter said. He’d turned the car off and come to stand a few feet away. 

“Peter.” Derek greeted his uncle with a nod. “I didn’t know you two were friends.”

“Oh, well—” Stiles began.

“Stiles was doing some consulting work,” said Peter. “Well, Derek, I see you’re feeling better. And you’re in good hands. I think I’ll turn in. Good night, Stiles. Derek.” Peter brought up a hand in a stiff wave and disappeared into the shadows of the trees, headed back to the house proper. 

“You didn’t have to spend all day with him, did you?” Derek asked, giving Stiles’s waist a squeeze. 

“It was nice,” Stiles answered distractedly. “Are you sure you should be outside? Or even out of bed?” 

“I’m practically as good as new,” Derek insisted, then stumbled, putting most of his weight onto Stiles. 

“Let’s get you back to your room,” said Stiles, pulling him up. 

“Sounds like just what I need,” said Derek with a wink. 

“Okay,” Stiles replied. He laughed, but it sounded nervous and forced even to his ears. “I think you should probably sleep.”

“Stitches are coming out soon,” Derek told him. “Then we can pick up where we left off. Or maybe dinner instead of dancing? Paris? We can take the company jet. Or Hawai’i? It’s closer, and we keep a house in Oahu.”

“How about,” said Stiles, juggling Derek’s crutch and body awkwardly, “we just get you upstairs first and then we can talk about international dinners and weekend beach getaways, hm?” 

“I think I liked it better when all you said was, ‘yes, Derek’,” Derek teased. Stiles made himself smile back, but he wondered if that was how Derek still thought of him. A kid who would go along with anything. 

He managed to maneuver Derek back into bed without incident, and Derek was worn out enough that it wasn’t too hard to gently disengage. Derek was sleepily persistent about kissing, though, and Stiles ended up the recipient of a sloppy, off-center smack on the corner of his mouth. Satisfied with contact, Derek fell into a light sleep and Stiles slipped out of his bedroom. 

He closed the door silently and leaned against the wall for several minutes, fingers pressed against the side of his face Derek had kissed. At last. Derek wanted him. Derek had kissed him. It was every romantic dream Stiles had cherished, but it didn’t feel the way he’d thought it would. He frowned. It was probably just the circumstances. After all, stitches, crutches, and painkillers weren’t exactly the accompaniments he’d envisioned. The important part was that Derek was genuinely interested in him.

**CHAPTER 8**

Stiles woke to his father bearing a cup of coffee and a nonplussed expression. 

“Morning?” Stiles mumbled. “Am I late for something?” 

“Your friends are here,” said Noah, handing over the coffee. Stiles took two deep gulps of the hot liquid then focused his attention on his father. 

“Friends?” 

“Lydia. Isaac. Scott. Kira. All in our living room.”

“Huh.” Stiles scrambled out of bed and into whatever clothes he found on the floor. 

“Are they staying long?” asked Noah. 

“I didn’t know they were coming,” said Stiles, yanking down an old t-shirt and reuniting with his coffee cup seconds later. 

“I’ll just take a walk, then?” 

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles said. Noah nodded and Stiles heard him say good-bye to the younger generation before closing the front door firmly behind him. 

Stiles ran into the bathroom, hastily took care of the bare minimum grooming required for social interaction, and entered the apartment’s living room to find, as Noah had said, his entire group of high-school friends assembled there. 

“Hey.” Stiles gave them a small, confused wave. 

“We brought breakfast,” Kira said, holding out a box of pastries. There were several large holes in the arrangement, and both Scott and Isaac had full mouths and crumb-filled plates. 

“Thanks?” Stiles sat on the couch and tentatively took a still-warm croissant from the box. “So…?”

“What’s been going on?” Scott was trying speak around a cherry danish, judging from the dot of jam on his chin. 

“Yes, Stiles,” said Lydia, raising her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “What has been going on? The last time we talked, you were getting ready to go to a party with your lifelong love interest.”

“Sorry I didn’t call,” said Stiles into his coffee. 

“Or text,” Lydia put in.

“Or email,” added Isaac, swallowing first. 

“So did you and Derek…?” Scott gave Stiles a look somewhere between concerned and judgmental. 

“Talk? Drink champagne? Yes,” Stiles said. 

Scott’s face cleared and he gave Lydia a smug glance. 

“So you talked and drank some champagne and then came home and haven’t gone anywhere since?” she asked. 

“Not exactly,” Stiles admitted. “I’ve been busy.”

“With Derek?” Isaac demanded. 

“Sort of. No. Well, not really.” 

“Words: they are your gift,” Isaac snarked. Stiles reached over to smack him on the arm and Isaac dodged. Before things could escalate, Lydia leaned forward to grasp Stiles’s collar and jerk him back by his shirt. He subsided onto the couch, picking at the croissant and trying to think of a succinct way to explain the past few days’ events. 

“I wondered if perhaps more than talking and drinking occurred,” said Lydia in a deceptively calm voice, “since Scott and Kira woke up this morning to find that every single item on their wedding registry had been purchased and delivered to their home.” She paused. “The only people we know who are capable of that kind of gesture live here, on this estate.”

“Um.” Stiles stared at her. “Are you asking if I slept with Derek Hale so that he would buy my friends some celebratory cookware?”

“It’s kind of weird, that’s all,” said Scott. “All the packages said they were from the Hale family.”

“Did they say anything else?” Stiles asked. 

“Just that they hoped Kira and I would be very happy.” 

“I don’t think Derek did this,” said Stiles. 

“Oh?” Lydia tapped a long fingernail against the coffee table’s hard surface. 

“So, Derek _couldn’t_ do more than talk with me, because he had an accident on the night of the party. He sent Peter out to make sure I…uh, got home okay,” said Stiles.

“You live like fifty feet from the garden where the party was,” Isaac pointed out. “Was he worried about sentient attack bushes?” 

“Peter and I got to talking,” Stiles continued, ignoring Isaac. “We…might have had a dance in the conservatory. Then when I went to see Derek the next day, I ran into Peter and we ended up spending the day together. I mean, he wanted my advice on this thing for Hale H&H and we went to San Francisco to look at the store. Then there was lunch and sliding and dinner and this amazing wave music and then I drove his car into the Marin headlands…and I thought he might…that we might…” Stiles trailed off, realizing all four of his friends were doing a variation on _slack-jawed and incredulous_. Lydia, needless to say, was the most subtle, but even she couldn’t be described as anything other than astonished. 

“You and Peter Hale,” she said. 

“Not really,” Stiles assured her. He took a breath. “Maybe. Sort of? No.” 

“Super believable,” said Isaac. “So no action with Derek at all, huh? I’m gonna owe Scott five dollars now.” 

“You bet on my emotional state?” Stiles asked, annoyed. 

“I knew you’d respect the engagement,” said Scott, beaming. 

“Well. Basically. Essentially.” Stiles abandoned the croissant and avoided Scott’s eyes. 

“Oh, geez,” Kira said into the sudden silence. 

“He kissed me. On the cheek. Close to the cheek.” Stiles absently rubbed at the spot again, Lydia’s sharp gaze following the movement like a bird of prey watching a mouse. 

“Derek. Now we’re talking about Derek?” Isaac tried to clarify. 

“Yes. Derek kissed me. No, Peter didn’t kiss me. Well, he didn’t kiss me in the car, anyway. I just…I thought he might, for a second. But of course I’d prefer that Derek kiss me,” said Stiles. He felt Scott’s disappointed face and added, “I mean, if Derek weren’t engaged, _then_ I’d want him to kiss me.”

“I thought you were over him,” Lydia said. 

“Who? Derek?” Stiles fidgeted. “Basically. Essentially. I was going to flirt a little with him at the party for, you know, _closure_ , that’s all. But…if he’s interested in me now, why is that so bad?” He hastily tacked on, “Aside from his engagement, I mean.” Stiles looked down at his bare feet and sighed. “I know it’s probably not super healthy, but I’ve wanted Derek for most of my life. He was always…it for me. In high school my extracurriculars were just following Derek around helping him with his hobbies. I’ve always seen him for the person I know he can be. He’s passionate and caring and…and…” 

Stiles stopped, realizing he wasn’t sure what other characteristics he could attribute to Derek that weren’t appearance-based. He took another breath and started again. “The point is, Derek’s been my ideal. And maybe he got engaged too soon! Look at the situation: he’s getting married to someone whose parents own a company Hale wants to do business with. What if Derek just felt pressured? I mean, Derek’s never really known what he wanted.”

“Exactly,” Lydia broke in, uncharacteristically gentle. “Don’t you want someone who wants _you_?” 

**CHAPTER 9**

Peter stared down at the thermometer in his hands. Ninety-eight point seven. Normal. Average, even. He set the thermometer down and walked back out into his office. Maybe what he was infected with didn’t result in fever. He had to be ill, though. There was no other way to explain why he’d repeatedly caught himself staring out the picture windows, reminiscing about the day with Stiles. He hadn’t even been looking at the grounds to ensure everything was being properly maintained. No, he—work-around-the-clock, no-time-for-romance Peter Hale—had been daydreaming. About an unemployed, aspiring mystery novelist. Who was in love with someone else.

It had to be sickness. 

Peter sat down at his desk and made himself look at his computer screen. The Tyson numbers. He wanted to groan, but refrained and instead corrected a number, stabbing his finger down on the _delete_ key and imagining it was Derek’s idiotic, handsome face. If Derek had just kept his smiles and innuendos and insatiable appetite to himself, or, better yet, his fiancée, Peter would not be in this terrible, illness-inducing situation. He would be in the city, his actual place of business, high above the masses scurrying around on the streets below. He would be calm and measured and calculating, the way he usually was—not feeling out of sorts and vaguely restless and far too eager to see a boy barely into adulthood. 

It was necessary, though. Peter’s eyes bored into the screen, brain going over the Tyson deal figures again. Hale H&H needed this, he reminded himself. Derek had to marry Braeden, Peter had to distract Stiles, and Stiles had to be managed until things were more settled. 

Talia had been at work on her end of the plan; she already had Braeden flying back to California. If only Derek would cooperate, Peter could return to his regular life: powerful, alone, and unencumbered by the emotions of other people. It didn’t sound quite as appealing as it normally did. Peter realized he was once more staring out the window and jerked his attention back to the computer. 

When he heard a knock at the door, he ignored it for the count of five before lifting his head to acknowledge Derek’s idiotic, handsome, frowning face. 

“Good morning,” said Peter, pasting on a pleasant smile. 

“What are you doing with Stiles?” Derek replied. 

“Coffee?” Peter offered, gesturing to the carafe on a side table. 

“What are you—”

“Yes, all right. I heard you.” Peter let his breath out and closed his laptop. “He’s an interesting boy. A smart boy. He was giving me some ideas for the store downtown.”

“He’s an adult,” Derek snapped. “Not a boy.” 

“Of course,” Peter conceded, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Stiles is a smart, interesting _man_ who was giving me some ideas for the store downtown.” 

“What does Stiles know about business?” Derek’s brow wrinkled. 

“He happens to be a talented writer and a thoughtful person,” Peter said before he could think of a more moderate response. He calmed himself down. “I wanted a storyteller’s take on some of the marketing copy and store displays. Stiles was here and he was at loose ends after your injury.” 

“Huh.” Derek moved farther into Peter’s office space, picking things up and putting them back down. Peter narrowed his eyes, annoyed but unwilling to say anything. “So you’re fine with the idea of me breaking off my engagement and going after Stiles?” 

Peter swallowed and summoned a polite smile. “Your happiness is a priority, of course.” 

“Huh,” said Derek again. “Braeden texted me. She’s on her way back here.”

Peter hesitated, wanting to play the situation just right and not sure what precisely to say. 

“You told me when you got engaged that you loved her,” he said carefully. 

“I did.” Derek crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared out the same windows Peter had earlier. “I—” He broke off, scowling. 

“You should probably talk to her,” advised Peter. 

“I don’t think I need relationship advice from you,” said Derek. 

Peter took another calming breath. “Fair enough,” he replied. “But whatever your faults may be, you’re not cruel, Derek. Don’t do anything without at least talking to your fiancée.”

“Please stay out of it,” said Derek. 

“You’re the one who came to me,” said Peter. He examined Derek’s tense posture, his expression of confusion. “I know you’ve been hurt—”

“Spare me the fake sympathy,” Derek said. “Your only interest in me is what I can do for H&H, and don’t pretend it’s anything else.” 

“I…care about you,” Peter said, feeling awkward and wrong-footed. 

“Hope you didn’t strain yourself with all those emotions,” Derek muttered. “Look.” He straightened and gave Peter a level look. “Don’t screw around with Stiles, okay?”

“Talk to Braeden,” Peter said in reply, then opened his laptop again, dismissing Derek by refusing to acknowledge him further. 

“You never change,” said Derek, and closed the door hard on his exit. 

Peter made himself examine every figure on the screen with his usual meticulousness. He was doing what was best for the company—for the _family_. Derek cared about Braeden and could be happy with her. Would be happy with her. Stiles was young and attractive and would weather the mild disappointment of losing Derek. He would probably never forgive Peter for his manipulations and deceptions, but Peter didn’t need the forgiveness or approval of Stiles to achieve his goals. 

It was all working out as planned. Peter just had to get Stiles on a plane to New York and out of the way long enough for Derek to reunite with Braeden. Talia, he knew, had likely been working tirelessly toward that end, so all that was left for Peter was to shift Stiles away from Derek’s grasp. 

Peter thought about what Derek had said and decided that there had been enough uncertainty in Derek’s demeanor that Braeden stood a very good chance of reclaiming her wayward fiancé. Ideally without ever realizing he’d been tempted to stray. 

Then Peter could wrap up this situation with Stiles and get past it. Stiles would write his book and meet someone…else. And live his life sadder but wiser and far from the Hales. Peter nodded to himself, realized he was staring out the window thinking of Stiles _again_ , and cursed. 

**CHAPTER 10**

Stiles went for a walk after his friends left. At some point, he’d have to find Peter and figure out why he’d sent Scott and Kira their entire registry. It couldn’t be simply because Scott was Stiles’s friend. But Stiles was at a loss as to what other reason Peter might have had. Neither Scott nor Kira even had any relatives who worked for Hale H&H. Stiles wasn’t sure if Peter’s extravagant gesture was flattering or weird. Both, probably. Just like Peter himself. 

Stiles hadn’t roamed the Hale Estate grounds since he was in high school, and his wandering took him to the farthest reaches of the property. He sat beneath the shade of a gazebo for a while, staring out at the neatly trimmed trees and hedges of a garden just beyond. He noticed that someone had slung a hammock between two of the trees, so he left the gazebo to investigate. The hammock, made of a durable canvas and sturdy webbing, was unexpectedly comfortable, Stiles found. He swung himself back and forth and let the overhanging branches blend into a pleasant blur of green and golden brown. 

The sound of voices filtered through the leaves, but Stiles was reluctant to leave. He stilled the hammock and waited, hoping whomever it was would move on. Unfortunately, the two speakers stopped in the gazebo and, judging from the serious tone of the conversation they were having, didn’t plan to leave immediately. He stopped breathing for a second when he recognized Derek’s voice. Stiles knew if he tried to leave at that point, they would see him. And there was a small, guilty part of him that wanted to hear what Derek was saying to his companion. 

“…right after the announcement!” Derek was saying, voice tight with some suppressed emotion. 

“Not _right_ after,” the woman responded. 

“Close enough,” Derek said. “Braeden…” He sighed. Stiles jolted a little, hearing the name. 

“The work I do is important,” Braeden said, and Derek made a displeased sound. “It’s important,” she repeated, “but so are you. So are we. I should have given the trip to someone else. I see that now.”

“It’s not the same to talk to you on the phone,” said Derek, sounding more sad than anything else. 

“Is that what’s bothering you?” she asked. “You’ve been distant lately.”

“Because I _was_ distant. Physically distant,” Derek pointed out. “You disappeared right after we got engaged and only planned to come back a week before the wedding. Does that sound normal? We didn’t even know each other a year before we decided to get married. Before you asked me to marry you.” 

“Is _that_ bothering you, then?” 

“No.” Derek sighed again. “Not really. I don’t care who asked, I guess. I just…”

“You needed me to be with you. Here with you. Really here.” 

Stiles could hear them shifting and imagined they were moving closer, maybe embracing. He gripped the sides of the hammock, feeling more guilty and less curious as the talking went on. 

“I’ve never actually committed to anything,” Derek admitted in a small voice. 

“That’s not—”

“It is true. When it counts, I don’t stick around,” he said, cutting her off. “Maybe it’s because of…of her. Ka— the Argents. Maybe it’s just the way I am. The family fuck-up.”

“Derek, stop.” There was a sharp intake of breath from one of them, then a brief silence. Stiles held still, wishing they would go away. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek murmured. “About…everything I said earlier. What I did. I’m just. Sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” said Braeden tenderly. 

Stiles stared blindly at the leafy canopy above him, sick at Braeden’s obvious care and affection. How could he have so cavalierly tried to take Derek for himself? Derek, who sounded like he was carrying wounds that had never healed. Stiles had known that the Kate Argent situation had been traumatic, but he hadn’t truly considered the effects it had had on Derek, beyond his years-long absence. 

Actually, Stiles might not know Derek at all, he reflected, trying to mentally block out the kissing noises coming from the gazebo. Derek had been his prince charming from the time Stiles was eleven years old…but had he ever left that role? Grown into a real person, with his own faults and desires? Stiles had tried so hard to be what he thought Derek needed…but if he’d never known Derek, what good had that done? 

Stiles endured his own recriminations for the time it took Derek and Braeden to whisper sweet things to one another and leave the gazebo. Then Stiles spent another few minutes lying in the hammock, thinking. For all the worship he’d lavished on Derek, Stiles had never thought his idol was perfect. Even now, Stiles could see that Derek’s flirtation with and pursuit of Stiles—however genuine it had or hadn’t been—wasn’t healthy behavior for someone engaged to be married. 

That didn’t make Stiles any less at fault for his own actions, but reminding himself that he and Derek both had some things to sort out did help clear his head. Derek was doing his best to take care of himself, and Stiles should do the same. He swung himself off the hammock and went in search of Peter. 

First Stiles checked in Peter’s home office, but it was empty, the laptop closed and the lights off. Peter wasn’t upstairs or in the kitchen, so Stiles expanded his search, running his quarry to ground at last in the conservatory. Stiles hovered in the entrance silently, taking in the way Peter’s hair was mussed, as though he’d run his fingers through it; the way Peter stared out the glass walls, as though the answer to a vital question was just before him. Something fond and affectionate blossomed in Stiles when he saw Peter’s thoughtful frown. Peter wasn’t easy, but he was fascinating. 

“Hey,” said Stiles. Peter startled, his shoulders jerking once before he turned to the doorway. 

“Hello, Stiles,” he replied smoothly, the frown melting away. 

“What’re you doing in here?” 

“Oh.” Peter shrugged. “Thinking.”

“Anything I can help with?” Stiles walked deeper into the sun-filled structure, only peripherally aware of the sweetly perfumed air and the bright blooms around him. It wasn’t as overwhelmingly romantic in the daytime, but the conservatory never failed to offer a beautiful setting. 

“What we talked about before,” said Peter, abrupt and unusually imprecise. 

“Um. Cars? Writing? Art?” Stiles guessed. 

“Passion.” 

“Oh.” Stiles blinked at that, heart rate picking up. He licked his lips and tried not to notice how thick Peter’s fingers were. “Yeah, okay. I mean—”

“Cooking,” Peter continued, and Stiles’s mind blanked for a second. 

“ _Oh_. Oh, I see. Yes. Yes, your…passion for cooking. Right. Okay.” 

“I’m going to do it, and I want you to come with me,” said Peter, meeting Stiles’s eyes with a heated, ardent gaze. 

“So, I thought I knew what we were talking about, but—” Stiles found his own eyes glued to Peter’s mouth. 

“I’ve bought tickets to New York.”

“Wha—” Stiles pressed his lips together in confusion. “New York?”

“I’m going to take the chef’s course. I’ve—” Peter broke off, rubbing his forehead. He gave Stiles a sheepish smile before adding, “I’ve taken the liberty of setting up some job interviews for you at a couple of major publishing houses. You could see what the publication process is like, get a foot in the door of that world. I know people. You don’t have to, but… Well, being around you has changed something in me. I want to see what I’ve been missing all these years. Passion. Spontaneity. I’d like to see what it is to do something I love, rather than something I just happen to be good at. And you… I’d like to do it with you.” 

“Oh, I…” Stiles had left astonishment several miles behind. 

“Say you’ll join me,” Peter urged, stepping closer to Stiles, until they were less than a foot apart. He reached out and took Stiles’s hand. The heat of Peter’s fingers against his made Stiles shiver. 

“It’s kind of sudden,” said Stiles, but he was gripping Peter’s hand right back. 

“Is it Derek?” Peter looked pained. 

“No,” said Stiles immediately, and Peter’s eyebrows shot up. 

“No?” he repeated, sounding doubtful.

“I…I’ve loved an idea of Derek for years,” said Stiles, feeling his hand tremble in Peter’s grasp. Peter didn’t let go, though, so Stiles let himself relax. “I thought I knew everything about him. What he liked to eat, what kinds of projects he’d get into, all the different smiles he has…how happy I could make him. I used to think I could make him so happy.” Stiles shook his head. “I guess I’m realizing now that I _don’t_ know Derek, not who he’s become, at least. And I don’t know what he really wants, even if I still remember that he hates pumpkin pie and looks forward to the rain in springtime. But that’s not…love.” 

Stiles took a deep breath, not daring to see what Peter’s face was doing. 

“So I guess…if you want to take me to New York to see what living for a passion, a real passion is? I’m going to say yes. I’m saying yes. Yes, Peter, I— I’m _happy_ with you in a way I haven’t been with anyone else, I—”

“Stiles, wait.” Peter interrupted. Stiles swiftly looked up to see Peter’s features twisted in… Well, on anyone else, Stiles would have labeled it _despair_ , but there was no reason for Peter to be upset. 

“Isn’t this what you want?” Stiles asked, puzzled. 

“It is!” Peter ground out, dropping Stiles’s hand. “But it isn’t. I can’t do this.”

Stiles’s stomach squirmed; he took an uneasy step away. 

“What are you saying, Peter?”

“This isn’t real. This isn’t a _real passion_ ,” said Peter, turning his face back toward the glass. 

“If you’re not sure about cooking after all—”

“I was trying to get you away from Derek,” Peter said baldly. “I wanted you out of the way so Derek could settle back with Braeden and the Tyson deal would go through. My company needs it. And I need my company. You were just—” Peter looked Stiles in the eye, perfectly serious. “You were just a distraction I eliminated.”

“No,” Stiles whispered. “No,” he repeated more firmly. “I don’t believe you. That wasn’t fake. You on the slides? The way we talked in the car? That was real, Peter.”

“It was a lie.” Peter was completely closed off, cold and unyielding. “I arranged for some compensation, of course. A bank account to draw from. An apartment set up in your name in the West Village. The interviews.” He stopped for a minute, then went on, still in that same, awful monotone. “A grocery service. A line of credit at Bergdorf Goodman—” 

“Jesus, Peter,” Stiles muttered. “Just stop.” He staggered back to the conservatory’s entry and leaned against the doorway, his legs shaky and weak. “Just. Stop.” 

Peter was quiet. 

“I’ll take the ticket to New York,” said Stiles once he was sure he could walk again. “I’ll get out of your way, stop _distracting_ Derek. But I think you’re going to regret this. I know you’re going to. The way you’re headed, you’ll be a lonely bastard the rest of your life.” 

“It’s just business, Stiles.” Peter had turned away again, as if he couldn’t bear to see Stiles leave him. 

“Wrong,” said Stiles. “It’s not business at all. And that’s why you’re so terrified.”

He slipped through the door and all but ran from the conservatory where, a few days and another lifetime ago, Peter had kissed him in the moonlight. 

**CHAPTER 11**

Peter made several calls then went back to his office after the— After he’d come clean to Stiles. He nodded briskly to himself. There had been a bit of a stumble at the end, but ultimately everything had worked out as he had intended. Stiles was out of the way, even if it wasn’t exactly as plotted. The Tysons had made pleased noises over the phone about the impending deal. Talia said she was headed back to Napa, and Stiles’s father hadn’t immediately come after Peter with a shotgun. All was well. The way Peter wanted it. 

Peter spent the night after breaking Stiles’s heart— _not breaking_ , he told himself, _don’t be dramatic_ —reiterating all these important facts. He took care of the remaining administrative details for Stiles’s new life in New York the following morning and threw himself into work that day; he hadn’t wanted to go back to the city immediately for reasons he chose not to examine, so he was back in his home office.

He made it past noon before admitting he couldn’t concentrate properly. Instead of forcing himself to stay at his desk, Peter went upstairs to his suite, walked into the bathroom, and stared at himself in the expanse of mirrors. He looked tired. Old. There were lines around his eyes and bracketing his mouth that never faded. There was tension in his forehead and a downward curve to his lips. He was still attractive, perhaps, but certainly Stiles could do better. Stiles would do better. He had money now—even if it took him a while to come around and accept it—he would have a brilliant career. He would be able to get anyone he wanted. 

_He said he wanted you_ , Peter’s rarely heard but still annoying conscience told him. 

“This is business. It’s just business,” Peter said aloud, blue eyes staring back at him from the mirror. They looked chilly and red-rimmed and he turned around so he could stare at his monogrammed towels on the heated rack instead. 

“I can’t do this,” he said, unsure whom he was addressing. The towels offered no answers. 

“Peter?” he heard from the outer rooms. It was Derek. 

Peter reluctantly exited his bathroom and faced Derek in the sitting room, where his nephew sat on the couch, grinning. 

“What is it?” Peter asked, nothing bothering to inject his tone with anything friendly. 

“I’m marrying Braeden,” said Derek happily. 

“Wonderful. I thought you told me that several months ago.” 

“Funny.” Derek briefly scowled before that dopey smile returned. “We talked. It was—”

“Do you love Stiles?” Peter demanded. Derek blinked at him, looking unusually bovine. 

“Stiles?” 

“Yes, Stiles. Stiles! For the love of god, Derek, do you seduce so many people that you forget from one day to the next who they are?” 

“Wow, careful. I see a vein that might actually burst out of your head,” Derek cautioned. 

“If you love Stiles, if you care for him even a fraction of the way he cares for you, I’ll— I’ll send you to New York with him. You can run away together.” Peter made a wild gesture with his arm, meant to indicate freedom and young love. 

“I’m kind of terrified right now,” Derek told him, edging off the sofa and toward the door. 

“Derek. You said you cared for Stiles.”

“I said I thought I _could_ care for him,” corrected Derek. “But I _do_ care for Braeden, so—”

“So you were just toying with Stiles?” 

“I was confused!” Derek stopped trying to escape and confronted Peter. 

“You’re acting like a child, Derek, a child who’s greedy with his toys. You want Braeden, you want Stiles—have you ever thought about what they might want?”

“What the fuck, Peter?” 

“If you were half the man Stiles thinks you are, you’d take him to New York and show him he was worth loving,” Peter snapped. 

“I think you’re having a psychotic break,” Derek said, lifting an arm to pat Peter on the shoulder. Peter jerked back, glaring. 

“Stiles spent his whole life chasing after you, adoring you, cheering you on, and now, when I’m offering you the chance to be with someone who cares so much about you, you’re turning it down. You’re breaking his heart.” 

“Peter, you are way out of line,” said Derek. “Where is this coming from? I told you I’m with Braeden, the Tyson deal is all but done. I thought you’d be thrilled. I thought you’d congratulate me, be proud of me for once. And instead you’re being crazy. What’s going on with you and Stiles?”

“Nothing,” said Peter bleakly. “Nothing’s going on with Stiles and me.”

“But there was something?” Derek pressed. 

Peter sank onto his couch and buried his face in his hands. 

“It’s all…it’s over,” he said. 

“Were you and Stiles…involved?” Derek asked, hesitant. 

“I’m calling a board meeting. I’ll dissolve the Tyson deal,” Peter said, pulling out his phone to act on his words and not responding to Derek’s question.

“Whoa, whoa,” Derek protested. “The Tyson deal is happening. Peter… Peter, I’m not exactly sure what’s going on in that huge brain of yours.” He yanked Peter’s phone away and tossed it out the door into the hallway. “What happened with Stiles?” 

Peter dropped his head back against the cushions. 

“I ruined it,” he said. “I thought I was being so clever.”

“You are very smart,” agreed Derek in a soothing voice. 

“I seduced him. He said—” Peter’s voice broke off and he cleared his throat several times. “He said I made him happy. Do you know how many people have said that to me? Zero. Stiles is the only one.”

“I’m sure that’s not true—”

“He said he was happy with me and I threw it back in his face. Told him everything was a lie.”

Derek didn’t hide his wince. 

“Not the best move, Uncle Peter,” he said. 

Peter sighed, drained and numb. 

“It was all so ill-advised. But I need the Tyson deal, I need to succeed. It’s my company. It’s what I’ve worked for, as long as I can remember. Talia was always going to retire early and I was always going to take over. It’s all I was meant for.” 

“I don’t think that’s true,” said Derek. “I know grandpa was kind of a hard ass. I know mom is…well, she can be scary. But she wouldn’t want you to be miserable. And, honestly, you sound pretty miserable. Why do you stay if you hate it?”

“I don’t hate it. I love winning. It’s not even the money. It’s knowing I’m the alpha in a world of betas.” 

“Being the only one of your kind sounds awfully lonely.” 

“It’s always been enough,” said Peter. 

“And now it’s not?” Derek asked, although he acted like he already knew the answer. Peter glowered at him but didn’t contradict the idea. “I can handle the final negotiations for the Tyson deal,” said Derek. 

Peter stared at him blankly. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Derek ordered. “I know everyone thinks I’m a moron, but I do actually have a business degree, and I did grow up in the same family you did. I get the financial reports. I read the progress emails. I’m not a total idiot.”

“No one thinks you’re a moron,” said Peter.

“Please.” Derek fixed him with a hard look. “You clearly think the only thing I’m good for is being married off like a medieval bride to seal a treaty.” 

“You said you cared about Braeden,” Peter protested. 

“I notice you didn’t dispute the idea that I’m too dumb to help run the company.”

“You’ve always tested quite strongly,” said Peter. 

“Oh, shut up,” Derek told him. “Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to leave the Tyson deal to me, you’re going to pack a bag, and you’re going to follow Stiles to wherever it is you’ve banished him. Then you’re going to apologize and get back the only person I’ve ever seen you give a shit about.”

“I can’t—”

“No arguments. I might not have all your degrees or your dedication to being an asshole, but I can handle wrapping up a deal with my fiancée’s parents. And you can handle groveling to Stiles.”

“I think I’d rather have your end of the bargain,” muttered Peter. 

“I believe in you,” said Derek, only mostly sarcastic. He clapped Peter hard on the back and left the suite. 

Peter paced the floor of his sitting room with agitated steps, his mind in turmoil. Derek could be very convincing, but Peter hadn’t spent his whole life preparing for success only to throw it away on someone he hardly knew. Stiles was smart and appealing, certainly, but he brought out feelings Peter would rather not deal with. Like uncertainty and softness and affection. Those had no place in Peter’s life. 

He crossed to the window, intending to recenter himself by looking at the gardens, and instead replayed the last few days in his mind. He realized what he was doing—staring out a window thinking of Stiles—and frowned. It was just as well he was giving the boy up. His ability to do anything other than sigh moodily and gaze out windows was significantly compromised when Stiles was in his life. 

Peter opened his closet and stared at his collection of suitcases. _You’re going to pack a bag, and you’re going to follow Stiles_ … Peter shook his head. No. His life was Hale House & Home. Derek was wrong. Derek was flighty and prone to bad judgment. Peter, on the other hand, didn’t put a foot wrong. He knew what he wanted from life and he took it. 

Peter recalled Derek’s firm voice, his calm conviction, his unexpected determination. Could Derek have grown up when Peter hadn’t been watching? If Peter had missed that about Derek, what else might he have missed? Stiles’s wry smile came to mind and Peter rubbed the back of his neck. There was something so easy about being in Stiles’s company. Peter didn’t feel as though every action he took carried far greater weight than just satisfying his own impulses and interests. He could…relax. Time spent with Stiles wasn’t empty or pointless, it was enjoyable. Stiles didn’t look to Peter to be anything other than himself. No need to meet lofty expectations or anticipate disappointment. Being with Stiles was the first thing Peter had ever wanted for himself, free of his family or his job or anything other than his own desires. 

Peter left the window and went downstairs to exit the house out a side door, intending to clear his head with a walk outside. He made it as far as the first hedge border before he was stopped by an imperious redhead wearing a short skirt and a flinty expression. 

“Mr. Hale,” she said, holding up a hand to stop him. 

“May I help you?” Peter asked, feeling his own face take on an unimpressed, impatient look. 

“You’re going to help yourself,” she informed him. “Let’s take a walk, shall we? There are some things you need to hear.” 

**CHAPTER 12**

Noah drove Stiles to the airport with a grim-faced solemnity. Stiles fidgeted in the passenger’s seat, torn between defending Peter’s emotional repression and allowing his dad to enumerate Peter’s many, many failings. So he and Noah were quiet for the first part of the drive. 

“You can come back anytime,” said Noah when they were close to the airport parking. 

“Yeah, I know. It’s just going to be kind of hard for a little bit. And I’ve wanted to see New York forever. And I think…I think I’ll take those job interviews after all.” 

Noah tightened his grip on the steering wheel but nodded shortly. 

“Do what you think is best,” he said. “I can help you out financially. Take your time finding the right job. You can still spend the summer writing your book—I have some money set aside. You’d be okay.”

“Thanks, Dad,” said Stiles, blinking back tears. “This is so stupid. I hardly know him. We had like one and a half dates. I shouldn’t be so sad.” 

“I knew after our first date that I wanted to marry your mother,” said Noah. “Sorry, kid, that probably doesn’t help.”

“It’s okay. It’s weirdly helpful. At least I know what I’m feeling has a chance of being real. Even if it’s depressing.” 

Stiles watched out the window as the airport signs grew closer. Noah pulled into a short-term parking spot and helped Stiles with his bags. 

“You’re sure you’ve got the housing all worked out?” he asked Stiles as they rode the elevator up to the concourse. 

“It’s Peter, so I’m sure it’s more than fine. But yes,” Stiles hastily added, “I checked into everything myself and it’s set up.” 

“I’ll come visit,” said Noah. “And I’m sure your friends will want to see you, too.”

“They’re already trying to coordinate a time,” said Stiles. “Plus I’ll be back for Scott’s wedding soon.” He smiled as he remembered Lydia’s reaction to the whole Peter situation. “Lydia may take a break from her Ph.D. to enact a hostile takeover of Hale H&H.” 

“I can’t say I’d mind working for Lydia instead of Peter,” Noah said. 

“Go easy on him,” Stiles urged. “He’s lonely and stubborn.”

“You’re a good kid,” Noah said. “Better than he deserves.” 

Stiles checked his bags then Noah walked him to the security line. They hugged, Noah squeezing Stiles tightly enough to rob him temporarily of air. Stiles tucked his head into his dad’s shoulder and gripped back just as hard. 

“You take care of yourself,” said Noah, and Stiles nodded. He watched his father head back to the exit, eyes following his familiar form until he had passed through the doors. 

The rest of the travel process passed in a weary haze for Stiles. He mechanically ate lunch during his layover in Denver and by the time the plane landed at JFK, he was tired, cranky, and caffeine-deprived. After claiming his luggage downstairs, Stiles found a hot coffee and a cab to his new apartment. The drive gave him time to become anxious all over again, second-guessing every choice he’d made since Peter’s unwelcome revelations. 

Maybe he should have cut all ties with Peter, turned down the ticket and the apartment and the interviews. Certainly Stiles wasn’t doing his pride any favors by accepting the bribes. But the hurt, angry part of him couldn’t help but claim what Peter had offered, wanting to take advantage of Peter’s efforts to calm his conscience. Wanting to wound Peter wherever he could, even if it was only ever in the form of money Peter would likely never miss. 

Or maybe… Stiles rested his head against the window glass, chilled from the air conditioning. Maybe he wanted to keep whatever Peter gave him because it was the only connection he’d ever have to Peter. To the drily funny, intelligent, isolated man who had lodged himself unexpectedly in Stiles’s heart. 

Stiles sighed and made himself think about anything else—what to eat for dinner, what to wear to the first interview, what Scott would inevitably forget on his wedding day—for the remainder of the drive. He paid and tipped the driver when they reached the apartment then stood in front of the building, bags in hand, for several minutes after the cab had left. 

“Here’s to a fresh start,” Stiles said to himself, and unlocked the front door with the new set of keys Peter had had couriered to Noah’s place that morning. He took the elevator up to his floor and made his way down the neat, plaster-walled hallway to his new place. Stiles took a deep breath and pushed the key into the lock, enjoying the _thunk_ the deadbolt made as it slid back. 

Inside, the living room smelled of wood polish and fresh flowers. The apartment was furnished and spacious for a one-bed in Manhattan, with tall windows and high ceilings. Stiles had no idea how much it cost, or if Peter just owned the building. He preferred, at that moment, not to think about it. 

After making a half-hearted effort to unpack some of his clothes and books, Stiles sat back on the generously sized couch and unlocked his phone. There were a few texts from Isaac and one from Lydia that told him she had set up food delivery for that evening, since she couldn’t trust him to remember to feed himself. 

Stiles grinned at the familiar tone that came across even in text. He started to write back when he heard a knock on the door. He hadn’t had a chance to ask her what she’d decided he should eat, but he figured if Lydia had ordered it, the odds were good that he would enjoy it. 

Another knock came and Stiles stood, grabbing his wallet from the kitchen counter. He opened the door and found Peter Hale on the other side, a large pizza box in hand. 

“I was told you eat pineapple on your pizza,” said Peter. 

“It’s— Yes, the combination of salty and sweet—” Stiles blinked a few times. “What are you doing here?” 

“I made a mistake.” Peter stepped forward and Stiles yielded, allowing him into the room. Peter held the pizza in front of him like a shield, eyeing Stiles warily. 

“What mistake?” asked Stiles quietly. “Are you here to take back the apartment? Tell me that was a lie, too?”

“No, I—” Peter broke off with a frustrated sound and set the pizza down on the counter. “I lied to you before.”

“I think you made that clear enough.”

“I mean…I lied when I said it was a lie.” Peter started to put a hand out to Stiles then stopped himself. “I do…care for you. Stiles. I care very much. And I was too proud and stubborn to admit it. To you, to myself. I want— I want to tell you about things I love and have you talk to me in return.” Peter took another breath. “I’ve existed all these years, but I never felt as _alive_ as I did when I spent a single day with you.” 

Stiles was silent long enough that Peter’s shoulders slumped and he turned back toward the door. 

“Wait,” said Stiles, and caught Peter’s sleeve. “You don’t get to leave after saying all that.”

“Do you…does that mean you want me to stay?” The hope in Peter’s eyes almost hurt Stiles to look at. 

“I can’t just forget what you did,” Stiles cautioned. “You hurt me.” 

“I know. I’m…I am sorry.” Peter dropped his eyes. 

“What made you come here?” Stiles asked. “I thought you had to take care of the all-important Tyson deal and supervise Derek.”

Peter gave a short laugh. “Turns out Derek can supervise himself. And the Tyson deal. He told me what a mistake I was making, letting you go. He wasn’t the only one. Your friend Lydia had some words for me, as well.”

Stiles huffed. “I’m sure she did. But you’re not here because you were guilted into it?” 

“No.” Peter stepped closer and took Stiles’s hands into his. “I might have needed some help to see where I went wrong. But the way I feel about you… I don’t need any help to know that I want to find out what we could have together. I want it more than anything else.”

“Bold words,” said Stiles, but he felt a flash of hope that matched the brightness of Peter’s. 

“Let me into your life,” Peter murmured, dipping his head to brush his lips along Stiles’s cheek. “Let’s see where things go.”

“It might not be a smooth ride,” said Stiles, leaning into Peter’s arms. 

“I can handle some turbulence.”

“And the first time I get mad at you, don’t think you can buy your way out of it.”

“Never,” said Peter, and Stiles snorted. “All right, I’ll try to keep that in mind. No buying my way out.” 

“And you have to pursue something that’s just for you,” Stiles added.

“I signed up for the chef’s course,” Peter said, and Stiles tugged him into a full embrace. 

“I want you to be happy,” Stiles whispered.

“I am. With you, I am.” 

Peter cupped Stiles’s face and brought their lips together in a kiss that started gently then quickly intensified, until Stiles was gasping into Peter’s mouth and Peter had one hand pressed to Stiles’s back and the other lower down. 

“Yes, Peter,” said Stiles when they parted for breath. “You make me happy, too.” 

Peter’s face for once was clear and open, and Stiles shivered at the joy he saw there. 

“I’m glad,” said Peter simply, and lowered his head to kiss Stiles again. 

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> What's the least-believable part of this whole thing? IMO it's that Peter somehow got clearance to keep an active landing pad on the roof of his Union Square building, hahaha.


End file.
